* * *
Cursing the fog that hampered his steps, Falcon made his way down the narrow, rutted street to the Silver Serpent. The stately, whitewashed tavern stood two stories tall but set within the steep-pitched, red-tiled roof, a small set of rooms towered above the rest. He glanced up at the darkened windows and his scowl deepened. Tonight the bawdy laughter that spilled forth from the inn grated on his nerves and the usually welcome aroma of roasting goat assaulted his senses. With the fog the inn would be more crowded than usual and that did not please him. His head ached. And those damned drums. If he ever found them they would be instant kindling – voodoo curse or not.
Roughly he shoved the inn’s swinging doors, causing them to snap back on their hinges. The startling clap pierced the merriment and a hushed silence filled the crowded common room. Oil lamps swung from the ceiling timbers casting shadowy images on the startled faces.
Falcon gave a growl of disgust and flexed his shoulders, anxious for a fight. His loose-fitting shirt could not disguise the solid, muscled flesh that lay beneath. And although short in stature, an aura of strength surrounded him. A path cleared before him as he crossed the crowded room to his empty corner table. His menacing scowl kept anyone from approaching as his eyes coldly swept the dimly lit room.
“Marie!” he barked. “Will half the night be gone before I get my meal?”
The robust maid gave him a curt nod and scurried to the hearth. Her ample bosom swayed as she sliced the roasted goat flesh with a large knife. She ladled vegetables from a boiling kettle onto the huge tray and filled a tankard with ale. Balancing the heavy fare, she slowly made her way back to Falcon and carefully placed the meal before him.
“Have you seen the Curse tonight?” he challenged softly.
“Nay, Captain.” Her voice quivered as she busied herself wiping the oaken table. “Not since you carried her through.”
Falcon watched her closely judging her words for truth. “Then she should still be there, should she not?” With careless ease, he leaned back on his chair. “Marie,” he commanded, a sardonic smile touching his lips, “fetch her for me.”
Marie’s dark skin paled. For a heartbeat she stood frozen with fear. But as Falcon’s glare hardened, her limbs found movement and she fled to do his bidding.
“Madre de Dios, let her be there,” she whispered over and over.
A commotion at the door took Falcon’s attention from the retreating girl.
“It is raining!” Dancer shouted. Standing just inside the entrance, he shook the fine drops of moisture from his curly hair. “The winds have returned!”
A chorus of rowdy cheers sounded and mugs were filled all round. Dancer slowly made his way through the crowd pausing now and again to share a word or issue an order. Reaching the back, he straddled a chair at Falcon’s table. A giant of a man, his broad shoulders flexed straining the damp fabric of his shirt as he casually rested his forearms on the back of the chair. His sharp features were softened by warm brown eyes and a rakish smile.
Scowling at his brawny quartermaster, Falcon grabbed the tankard of ale and downed half the contents with one gulp.
“You look little pleased with my news,” Dancer stated. “I thought the idea of leaving would cheer your sagging spirits.”
“We sail on the tide.” Falcon’s voice was flat, giving no hint of inner feelings.
Dancer turned and called Falcon’s orders to the crew and another chorus of cheers sounded.
“I understand I missed quite a spectacle earlier,” Dancer continued, turning back to Falcon. “Did you really beat her until you drew blood or do the gossips speak falsely?”
“Have you so little to do with your time that you give heed to vicious island rumor?”
Dancer’s smile grew. “What did the wench do this time?”
Falcon pictured the Curse lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of her bedchamber, her eyes bright and brimming with tears. Would that he could turn back the hands of time. He’d never leave her like that again he vowed silently. The next time he’d bind the cocky wench in chains.
“She’s missing.” Falcon’s voice was hard and threaded with anger.
“Falcon, the island is too small for her to be missing.” Dancer chuckled. “I’d wager she probably heard your angry bellows and decided to lay low until your temper cools.”
“Her chambers are empty.” Falcon stared blankly over his mug. “And she is not on the ship. She’s in the swamp with that scurvy mongrel, Kabol. I know it sure as I know my own name.”
Dancer’s easy smile disappeared. “I thought you forbade her to go there again.”
“I ordered her! But does she obey? Why I’d flog a man for less and she knows it.”
Dancer shifted uncomfortably. “How long?”
“An hour, mayhap less,” Falcon shrugged.
Dancer made to rise, his intent clearly to go after her.
“It is not necessary,” Falcon stated from behind his tankard. “Marie has gone to fetch her.”
“On a night such as this you would send my Marie into the swamp?”
“Nay,” Falcon belched, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “The girl is no fool. She will sit on the wood’s edge and wait for the Curse to return. Then they will concoct some fantastic story that I am supposed to believe.”
“So you are content to do nothing but wait?” Dancer’s tone clearly sounded his objections.
Falcon rocked back on his chair and his eyes took on a glassy hue. “Aye, mayhap the fates will smile on me tonight and the wench will lose her step in the quicksand that lines the path.”
For a moment Dancer could not gather his wits. For years Falcon had complained at having a daughter instead of a son. He had even gone so far as to dub her his Curse. But never before had his words wished her true harm
“You’ve been too long with the drink, my friend.” Dancer’s voice was stern and he pulled his chair closer. “'Tis your daughter, Elizabeth’s child, you prattle about.”
Falcon slapped his tankard down on the table. “Don’t speak the name of that witch in the same breath with my Elizabeth. Elizabeth was good, an angel . . .”
“They are mother and child!”
“Nay,” Falcon argued. “She is a spawn of the devil. She sees into the future and plays with black magic. If it wasn’t for her, I could have persuaded Elizabeth to join me all those years ago. But, nay, she wanted a proper home for the child. 'Twas that damned babe that cost me the finest thing I ever owned.”
Dancer’s thoughts raced back in time. He had met Elizabeth Chesterfield twice, and although it had been more than a decade ago, the memory still burned brightly. A delicate thing, she looked as if a puff of air would carry her off. But her looks had been deceiving, for no matter how difficult, whenever Falcon sent a message, Elizabeth traveled to meet him. Until . . . Dancer felt his skin grow cold with the memory of that last night. The Sea Hawk had slipped past the English ships and docked off the coast of Falmouth. Impatiently, Falcon had waited for Elizabeth to join him at the posting house on the edge of town. But Elizabeth had not come. At the appointed hour an exhausted and ragged Samantha had appeared. Her frightened, whispered words still echoed through his mind. “Mother won’t be coming. She’s dead.”
Falcon had taken one look at the tiny child who stood before him and his curses shook the rafters. He saw not his daughter, but the messenger of despair. He never asked how a child of eight had managed to travel the great distance or of her welfare. He had simply stood and walked out.
Dancer had watched the pain eat at Falcon’s reasoning until the friend from his youth became the embittered man who sat before him.
“If your true wish is for the Curse to be gone,” Dancer said quietly, “then why not send her back home to your brother Edward? Let him be responsible for raising her in the proper English fashion.”
“Never,” Falcon snarled. “I’d sooner cut off this hand before I’d give anything I possess to that bastard. We are brothers, two w
ith mirrored faces, yet fate saw fit to pronounce him the elder.” Falcon’s eyes glittered with hatred. “It was ten damned minutes of life that gave that bastard the right to lay claim to everything.”
“But since the Curse is such a trial, send her back to Edward. Let her wreak havoc with his life.”
“I need no advice from you,” Falcon spat. “The Curse is mine and I’ll do with her as I damn well please. And when I find her tonight I’m – “
“Going to do what, invite me to share your table? Why, thank you, Falcon. I accept your kind offer.”
Samantha settled gracefully into the remaining chair and tried to ignore the silence that had invaded the room upon her entrance. She could feel Falcon’s anger and tonight even Dancer seemed in ill humor.
“Where have you been?” Falcon growled, noting her dry shift and cap.
Remembering her humiliation from the afternoon, Samantha’s chin raised as she assumed an attitude of remote indifference. “Why, Falcon . . .” she drawled innocently. “Has it been so long since you locked me in my chambers that you have forgotten the incident? Did you not, just moments ago, give Marie permission to release me?”
As if on cue, Marie silently appeared at the table and produced three crystal goblets and a bottle of fine brandy.
Samantha smiled sweetly and reached across the table to pull Falcon’s untouched plate before her. “It was thoughtful of you to consider my hunger. Aren’t you eating?” she questioned, taking a dainty mouthful.
“Don’t push me any further, Curse, or the seat of your pants shall become smartly acquainted with my belt.”
“As you wish,” she smiled innocently. “When do we sail?”
“I’ll not have you going into the swamp again. Do you hear?”
Samantha wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, “Aye, in fact I’ll wager half the island heard.”
“Then heed my words.’Tis not a safe place for the likes of you.”
She returned her father’s glare, refusing to lower her eyes in defeat. “'Tis the safest place on this island.”
“Falcon speaks the truth, Curse,” Dancer interrupted quietly.
Her stomach knotted and she stiffened under Falcon’s withering stare. “What a pair of hypocrites I sit with,” she snapped. “If I followed your asinine orders, neither of you would be here today. Would you have had me sit and watch, dear Father, the time your belly was split open with a sword and your life flowed freely upon the deck? And you . . .” Her anger turned toward Dancer. “When you shook with fever so hard that ribs cracked, were you sorry then that I ventured into the swamp? Would you have wished me no knowledge of the yellow powder that cured you?”
The stem of his glass snapped between his fingers and Falcon looked down to see his blood mingle with the wine that spilled on the table.
“Madre de Dios,” Samantha swore softly, reaching for his hand.
Falcon flung her arm away with a savage jerk. “Do not touch me!” he bellowed, rising from the table. “This is the last time you will disobey my orders. You will not venture alone into the swamp again, or with Dancer as my witness, I’ll have you tied to the capstan and flogged. Fifty lashes should go a long way to curb your wanderings.” His ultimatum complete, Falcon flung his chair against the wall and stormed from the tavern.
Samantha sat as one made of stone, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. He hadn’t even wanted her to touch him. Her throat tightened and her eyes stung. Masking her inner turmoil, she lifted her wineglass in a silent toast to her father’s retreating shadow. Two could play his game, but try as she would, she could still feel Dancer’s silent disapproval. It was not often that he sided against her and tonight she felt his betrayal more keenly than Falcon’s ire.
Resting her elbows on either side of her plate Samantha’s head dropped to rest on clenched fists. Her chest grew tight and she struggled against the tears that threatened anew. She took several deep breaths before raising her eyes to confront Dancer.
“It is not my wish to disobey him, but he should not ask the impossible of me.”
Dancer raised a brow but said nothing.
Samantha pushed the food away in disgust. “Mayhap I should have tempered my words,” she conceded, shrugging her weary shoulders. “But he should understand. You should understand. Why do you fight me on this? I am completely safe when I venture into the swamp. Do you truly think that there is one on this island, save perhaps St. Martin, that would dare to harm me? I have you and Falcon standing to my left and Kabol on my right. What fool would risk the anger of all three?”
Dancer watched a familiar mutinous look settle over her delicate features. She didn’t even reach Falcon’s shoulder in height, yet she was the only one who openly dared to challenge him. “Falcon has made a stand in front of his crew, Curse. The next time he will not back down. If it comes to that, there will be little I can do to save you.”
Samantha placed a fleeting kiss on his weathered cheek. “You speak as a doddering old man,” she whispered, giving his thick gold earring a gentle tug. “But I know for a certainty that, despite Marie’s objections, you still bed more than half the wenches on this island.”
Samantha dodged his threatening swing and left to seek her bed. But for Dancer the light sound of her laughter lingered long after both she and the brandy were gone.
* * *
Samantha paced restlessly finding no comfort in the plush surroundings of her chambers. Rich ivory silks from India covered the walls. The ornately carved teak furniture glowed warmly in the light of the single candle that reflected in the crystal panes of the French doors. A large arrangement of wildflowers in a variety of yellows and oranges provided the room’s only touch of color.
Muffled laughter from the common room below filtered upward to her third-floor sanctuary but tonight it offered no peace. Her mind replayed the angry confrontation with Falcon over and over again.
Not bothering to disrobe, she extinguished the candle and listlessly flopped back against the pillows on her bed. Tonight, no moonlight illuminated the miniature portrait she cradled lovingly in her palm.
“How did you succeed, Mama?” she whispered. “How did you make him love you?” Silent tears traced a path down her pale face. “'Tis not possible for me to please him. We took half a score of ships last voyage and still he is not content. We must sail again with the tide.” Clutching the portrait close to her chest, Samantha curled onto her side. “What words of wisdom did your death rob from me?” she sobbed brokenly into the pillow. “Do I ask too much? All I wish is for Papa to love me.”
Awards and Accolades:
SEA SCOUNDREL
1997 RWA Golden Heart Finalist
1991 A Heart of the Rockies Award
1991 A Dallas Area Romance Authors Award
Annette Blair Booklist
Tulle Death Do Us Part, February 2013
Moving Pictures, Sisters of Sprit Anthology, Dec 2012/Jan 2013
Cloaked in Malice, July 2012, NY Times Bestseller
Jonquils in the Snow, Mammoth Book of Ghost Romance, June 2012
Holy Scoundrel, August 2012 ebook
Proper Scoundrel, May 2012 ebook
Captive Scoundrel, May 2012 ebook
Sea Scoundrel, May 2012 ebook
Butterfly Garden Audio Book, August 2012
Jacob’s Return Audio Book, March 2012
Untamable Rogue, January 2012 (Formerly A Christmas Baby) ebook
Unmistakable Rogue, January 2012 ebook
Unforgettable Rogue, January 2012 ebook
Undeniable Rogue, January 2012 ebook
Butterfly Garden, Oct 2011 paperback & ebook
Skirting the Grave, July 2011
Kissingate Magic, Mammoth Book Scottish Romance, January 2011
Jacob's Return, May 2011 (Formerly Thee I Love) paperback & ebook
Vampire Dragon, April 2011
Fall in Love Like a Romance Writer, February 2011
Naked Dragon, January 2010
&n
bsp; Death by Diamonds, July 2010
Bedeviled Angel, August 2010
You Can't Steal First, Hot Ticket Anthology, Sept 2009
Larceny and Lace, Aug 2009
A Veiled Deception, January 2009
Never Been Witched, Feb 2009
Gone with the Witch, May 2008
Sex and the Psychic Witch, August 2007
The Scot, the Witch & the Wardrobe, Dec 2006
You Can't Steal First, Hot Ticket Anthology, May 2006
Scoundrel in Disguise, May 2006
My Favorite Witch, January 2006
The Butterfly Garden, April 2005
The Kitchen Witch, Oct 2004
A Christmas Baby, Oct 2004
An Unmistakable Rogue, Oct 2003
An Unforgettable Rogue, Oct 2002
An Undeniable Rogue, Mar 2002
Thee I love, Oct 1999
Lady Patience, Sept 1999
Lady Faith, March 1999
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