Pirate

  But then Robert, his breathing labored, smiled at William. “Who do you think convinced the king to move his treasure for safekeeping, then set up this ambush? ’Twas I . . . Prince Louis, the true king, who sits now in London, will reap the benefits of your false king’s greed . . . The treasure will be ours.” He sucked in a lungful of air. “We have spies in every court . . . Every last jewel in his crown, every last bit of his gold, will finance Louis’s campaign. England will be his . . . You and your ilk will swear fealty to Louis before this week is through.”

  “Not if I have aught to say about it.”

  William drove the sword home, twisting to make sure the final thrust brought death. He left the body where it was, then eyed Fitz Hubert. “Are you hurt?”

  “A cracked rib, I fear.”

  “You heard?”

  “Aye.”

  They managed to recover only one horse, William’s, and they decided because of Fitz Hubert’s injury, William would ride to warn the king. When he reached the encampment in Bishop’s Lynn, he saw it on the faces of the others. John de Lacy met him outside the king’s tent, refusing him entry. “The king is ill. Dysentery. He wishes to see no one.”

  “He will see me. Make way or forfeit your life.”

  “What—”

  William pushed past him and entered the tent, his nostrils flaring at the putrid air. The king’s physician and two stewards were in attendance. Candles flickered in their stands around the king’s pallet, casting a dim glow about the still form. Too still. William feared the king might be dead by now. But as he neared, he saw his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. “My liege.” William took to his knee at the king’s bedside, bowing his head. “I have failed you.”

  The king’s eyes opened slightly. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. “How so?”

  “What I have to say is best told in private.”

  King John said nothing at first, just stared at William. Then, a slight flick of his wrist. “Be gone. All.”

  William waited until the tent was cleared. And, even then, he was loath to impart the news. “I failed to recognize a traitor in your midst. Perhaps not the only one. Robert de Braose. He told me you were dying. Before he possibly could have heard.”

  “Dysentery.”

  “I fear not.”

  The king closed his eyes, and for a moment William worried that he would not waken. “Who would do this?”

  “That, I do not know. But whoever has worked this evil, they know of the royal treasure you bring with you. It is meant to finance Prince Louis’s claim on the English throne. They know you are moving it. Your illness was to be the distraction needed so that on the morrow they could take it.”

  “My son . . .” The king reached out, grasped at William’s hand, his grip weak, feverish. “What of Henry?”

  “He is safe. I will guard him with my life.” The king’s oldest son, a mere lad of nine, was innocent of the dishonesty and treachery of the last several kings—his father and all his relatives included. If there was to be any hope for England, it would be through a monarch who was untouched by greed and murder. “I fear that the temptation of such a treasure will be too much for the young prince’s reign.”

  “He will need all of my treasure to finance his retribution. To win back our lands.”

  “My liege. If I may be frank. As long as that treasure exists, there will be those who want nothing more than to possess it. Louis of France is only the first of many. And lest you forget, the rebel barons you have fought against these past several months cannot be trusted. Not while the lure of gold and riches tempts them.” He waited a moment to make sure his words were heard and understood. “A poor kingdom is far less desirable. Even more important, a young king barely old enough to rule a poor kingdom is no longer a threat . . .”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What if that treasure was lost this night while we were trying to move it through the quicksand of the fens? If you lose the treasure, you lose your son’s enemies.”

  The king remained silent, his breathing shallow.

  “You are dying, sire.” Though he didn’t want to believe, he knew the words were true. This was no dysentery. He’d seen it before. A slow poison that ate away at the gut. The king would last perhaps a week or more, his pain excruciating while he waited—nay, prayed for death. “This way, we know young Henry will be safe.”

  “And if my son should need the treasure? When he is older?”

  “He won’t. As long as it remains lost, he will be safe.”

  It was several long seconds before the king answered. “See that it is done.”

  One

  San Francisco, California

  Present day

  Sam and Remi Fargo weaved their way around the tourists crowding the sidewalk. Once they were through the green pagoda-style gateway of Chinatown, the throng much thinner, Remi checked the map on her cell phone. “I have a feeling we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

  “To that restaurant,” Sam replied, removing his revered panama hat. “A tourist trap, if I ever saw one.”

  She glanced at her husband, watching as he ran his fingers through his sun-streaked brown hair. He stood over a head taller than Remi, with broad shoulders and an athletic build. “I didn’t hear you complaining when they brought out the moo shu pork.”

  “Where did we go wrong?”

  “Ordering the Mongolian beef. Definitely a mistake.”

  “On the map, Remi.”

  She zoomed in, reading the streets. “Perhaps the shortcut through Chinatown wasn’t so short.”

  “Maybe if you’d at least tell me where we’re going, I could help?”

  “It’s the only part of this trip,” Remi said, “that’s my surprise for you. You haven’t even shared what you have planned.”

  “For a reason.” Sam put on his hat, and Remi linked her arm through his while they walked. He’d arranged this trip because their last adventure to the Solomon Islands had not been the hoped-for quiet vacation they’d planned. “I promise you nothing but rest, relaxation, and a week of no one trying to kill us.”

  “A whole week of downtime,” she said, sidling closer to him as a cloud drifted over the sun, taking with it all the warmth of the early-September afternoon. “Have we had anything like that in a while?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “There it is,” she said, spying the bookstore. The flaking gold-leafed lettering in the window read Pickering’s Used & Rare Books. “Just to show how very much I appreciate you traipsing all this way with me, I won’t make you come in.” Remi was being facetious. Sam’s late father, a NASA engineer, had collected rare books, and Sam, also an engineer, had inherited that same passion.

  He eyed the bookstore, then his wife. “What sort of husband would I be if something happened to you in there?”

  “Dangerous things, books.”

  “Look what they did to your brain.”

  The pair crossed the street to the bookstore. A Siamese cat, resting on a stack of volumes in the window, looked up in disdain when a bell tinkled as Sam opened the door for Remi. The place smelled of musk and old paper, and Remi scanned the shelves, at first seeing nothing but used hardcovers and current paperbacks. She hid her disappointment from Sam, hoping they hadn’t made the trip for nothing.

  A gray-haired man, wearing gold spectacles, wandered in from the back, wiping his hands on a dusty cloth. He saw them and smiled. “May I help you find something?”

  Sam’s phone rang. He took it from his pocket, telling Remi, “I’ll take it outside.”

  “Perfect, since this was meant to be a surprise.”

  He stepped out, and Remi waited until the door closed firmly behind him before turning to the proprietor. “Mr. Pickering?”

  He nodded.

  “I was told you had
a copy of The History of Pyrates and Privateers.”

  His smile faltered for the barest of instances. “Of course. Right over here.”

  Pickering led her to a shelf where several identical volumes of Pyrates and Privateers sat. And while they were clearly reproductions, their faux gold-tooled leather binding gave them the appearance of something that might be found in a library centuries before.

  He slid a copy from the shelf, used his cloth to wipe the dust from the top of it, then handed it to her. “How did you know we carried this particular volume?”

  She decided to keep it vague—not wanting there to be any hurt feelings now that she knew the book was merely a reproduction. “A woman I work with knew of my husband’s interest in lost artifacts and rare books.” She opened the cover, admiring the detail that gave it an antiqued appearance. “It’s a beautiful copy . . . Just not what I was hoping for.”

  He pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. “It’s popular with interior designers. Less emphasis on lost artifacts and more on decorating a coffee table. I do, on occasion, run across old volumes of historical significance. Perhaps your friend meant the Charles Johnson volumes on A General History of Pyrates? That, I do have.”

  “As do we. I was hoping for Pyrates and Privateers to round out our collection. My friend, no doubt, confused the two titles.”

  “Who did you say referred you here?”

  “Bree Marshall.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s—” A whoosh of air and the tinkling of the bell seemed to startle him, and he and Remi turned toward the door at the same time. Remi, expecting Sam, saw a much shorter, broad-shouldered man silhouetted against the light from the shop’s window.

  The bookseller eyed the man, then smiled at Remi. “Let me get the dust off of it and wrap it for you.” And before she could object, tell him she really had no interest in buying a reproduction, he swept the book from her hands. “I’ll be right back.”

  Her friend Bree had clearly misunderstood which book her uncle had in his shop. No matter. It was a beautiful copy and would look nice in Sam’s office. He’d certainly appreciate the sentiment, she decided as she turned to browse the shelves while waiting, spying a copy of Galeazzi’s eighteenth-century music treatise. It appeared to be a first edition, and she couldn’t imagine why it was sitting in a simple locked glass case at the front counter.

  “Do you work here?” the man asked.

  She turned, caught a glimpse of dark hair, brown eyes, and a square-set jaw, as he moved from the backlighting of the window. “I’m sorry. No. He’s in the back. Wrapping a gift for me.”

  He nodded, then walked past the aisle out of sight. When Mr. Pickering emerged from the back room, he walked around the counter to the register. The man stood off to one side, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather coat. His presence bothered Remi, though for no reason she could determine except perhaps the way he seemed to be watching their every move—and that he never took his hands from his pockets. She didn’t like it when she couldn’t see someone’s hands.

  Mr. Pickering slid her brown paper parcel onto the counter, his gnarled fingers shaking slightly. Nerves or age? she wondered.

  “Thank you,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh. Right. Forty-nine ninety-five. Plus tax. No charge for the gift wrapping.”

  Not quite the wrapping she would have chosen. Aloud, she said, “On the good-news front, it’s definitely less than I’d anticipated.”

  “Printed in China,” he said, offering her a nervous smile.

  She paid him, then tucked the parcel beneath her arm. The Siamese, on its windowed perch by the door, peered over at her, its tail twitching. Remi reached down and petted it, the cat purring, as she stole a glance at the stranger, who hadn’t moved.

  He pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at them. “Lady, you should’ve left when you had a chance. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Two

  Sam finished his phone call with the hotel manager, who confirmed that the champagne on ice and gift for Remi had been delivered to their suite as ordered. Sam checked his watch, then glanced over at the bookstore, wondering what was taking Remi so long. Knowing her, she was probably having a lively discussion on some obscure topic with the bookseller and that customer who’d walked in shortly after. She’d been excited about the prospect of searching for this mystery book—something she was certain he’d want to add to his collection. But, really, how long could it take to find the thing and pay for it?

  Time to urge Remi to shop a little faster or that champagne was bound to be room temperature by the time they made it back. He peered into the window, seeing no one, not even the cat who’d been perched on the books by the door. What he did see was Remi’s purse sitting atop a wrapped parcel on the counter.

  Not like her to leave her purse, he thought, and opened the door, the bells jingling as he stepped in. “Remi?”

  The shop appeared empty.

  “Remi?”

  He eyed her unattended purse, then walked through the store, looking down each aisle, finally finding her standing in the doorway of what appeared to be an office or storage area at the back of the shop. “There you are.”

  “You’re supposed to wait outside. Remember?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I found that cookbook I’ve been searching for. The owner’s wrapping it up for me. Now, leave or you’ll ruin your surprise.”

  He stared for a second or two, unable to read anything on her face, her green eyes about as expressive as a poker player’s. “I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Don’t be long.”

  She smiled sweetly at him, never moving from the doorway. “I won’t.”

  He retraced his steps. The door bells jangled overhead as he opened, then shut, the door, remaining inside the store.

  While Remi wasn’t exactly a stranger in the kitchen, she often joked that cook was a noun, not a verb.

  Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall her ever buying a cookbook, much less searching for one. Definitely not while they were married.

  She was in trouble.

  Nice time to be without a gun.

  Typically, he carried a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum, but they were in San Francisco for fun and so he’d left it on their plane.

  Now what? Call 911 and hope the police arrived in time?

  Not about to risk his wife’s life, he silenced the ringer on his phone, set his hat on the counter, then quietly began opening drawers, searching for something a little more substantial than his small pocketknife to use as a weapon. He found a folding knife with a four-inch blade. He pulled it open, felt it lock. Decent weight, nicely balanced, point intact, probably used to open boxes, judging by the gumminess on the blade’s edge. Now to get back to that room without being discovered.

  He slid his hand into his wife’s purse, found a small makeup bag, and took out a compact mirror. Flipping it open, he wiped the powder residue from the mirror with his pants, then edged his way down the aisle, making sure a row of bookshelves was between him and the door to that storeroom.

  “You!” a deep voice shouted.

  Sam froze.

  “Forget the combination again and you die.”

  “Forgive me.” Pickering, the bookseller, Sam figured, as he continued down the aisle. “I’m nervous.”

  “Please,” Remi said. “There’s no need to wave that gun around.”

  “Shut up! You, old man. Get that safe open.”

  “I—I’m trying.”

  Sam forced himself to breathe evenly. His wife was in that room, and all he wanted to do was rush in there, save her. But his haste could mean her death. A folding knife against a gunman. It was moments like this he was glad for the weapons-and-security training he’d received during his years at DARPA.

  When he reac
hed the end of the aisle, he stopped, used the mirror to peer around the corner.

  Light spilled from the doorway of the storeroom onto the gray linoleum floor. Sam kept to the edge, careful not to cast a shadow. Holding the mirror out, he angled it to get a visual into the room.

  Relief at the sight of his auburn-haired wife, now seated by a cluttered desk, was short-lived as he angled the compact farther and saw the short, swarthy fellow holding a semiauto to the shopkeeper’s back. The two men stood in front of a large floor safe, the shopkeeper turning the dial. If Sam approached from this position, it put Remi between him and the gunman.

  He didn’t like the odds. At the moment, he had no other choice.

  C’mon, Remi. Turn. See me . . .

  He rocked the tiny mirror back and forth so that the light caught her face. Unfortunately, she looked away, leaning toward the desk, as an audible click indicated the safe had unlocked. Pickering pulled open the door, revealing a smooth wooden box large enough to hold two bottles of wine.

  The gunman stepped closer to it. “What’s in the box?”

  “An old book. Just an antique.”

  “Put it on the desk.”

  He complied, placing the box on the desk near Remi.

  Sam grasped the handle-heavy knife by its blade, stepped into the doorway, aimed, and threw.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  At that very moment, Remi jumped from her chair and swung the brass desk lamp against the gunman’s hand. Sam’s knife struck the man’s shoulder. A shot cracked the air as he twisted, his gun flying from his hand.

  Sam rushed in. The gunman pushed Pickering onto Remi, then grabbed the box. He slammed it into Sam’s head as he ran past and out the door.

  Sam wasn’t sure if it was the jangling of bells as the front door opened or the blow to his head causing the ringing.

  “Sam . . . ?”

  It was a second before he realized his wife was speaking to him. “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  “Are you okay?” she replied.