Lord of Devil Isle (21 page)

Nicholas peered through his spyglass at the dark horizon. Over the silver-tipped waves, white sails showed at the farthest edge of his vision.

“That’ll be the
Lady Catherine
out of Virginia and the
Charleston and Savanna Pacquet,
of South Carolina,” Saint said at his elbow.

And between them on a tight leash, rode Nick’s own
Susan Bell,
whose hull was full to bursting with the promised foodstuffs. The ships were cruising beyond the range of the governor’s scout vessels. They’d have the wind of any patrol boat that took an interest in them.

“If something goes awry, the Americans will turn tail and head for home,” Nick said grimly.

“Nothing will go awry.” Saint clapped him on the shoulder. “And we won’t turn tail. History is written by the winners, Nick. When all this is over and America is free of the Crown, we’ll remember what you do here tonight.”

“What’s this ‘we’?” Nick demanded. “You were born a Bermudian, Saint.”

“But I’m an American by choice,” he said softly. “I know this is difficult for you. It’s hard for me, too.”

Nick snorted. “Not hard enough.”

“It’s a sober thing to take up arms against one’s sovereign,” Saint said. “But freedom is worth a man’s life, even a man’s honor. Once you’re determined to pursue it, there’s no road back.”

“None that doesn’t end in a noose,” Nick said, lifting the glass to his eye again. “Here come the whaleboats. I make half a dozen of them.”

He handed the spyglass to Saint. The American ships lowered smaller boats to creep into the shallow bay. The flotilla had just passed the first ring of reefs.

Nick looked at the men who waited for his word. Along with Higgs, he had called on the small group who’d returned to Bermuda in the schooner from Grand Turk since the bulk of his crew was still on board the
Susan Bell.
Saint had brought a few trusted men as well, including, surprisingly enough, his father, Colonel Henry Tucker.

From the scowl on the elder Tucker’s face, Nick suspected the old man’s involvement was more about salvaging his shipping rights with the Americans than any sympathy with the rebels’ cause.

And if things went badly this night, Nick had as good as signed each man’s death warrant.

“Let’s get started.”

Nick led the party back up the short hill to where the magazine was positioned in a lonely part of the island. The moon overhead was only a few days past full. There was plenty of light to see that no guards were in sight.

“Thanks be to God for incompetent governors,” Nick muttered. “Tatem, Dunscombe, you two will serve as lookouts. If you see anyone, sing out like a teal. The rest of you, with me.”

The magazine was made of limestone blocks, several feet thick, and the door could not be jimmied from without.

“Give me a boost to the roof, Cap’n,” Higgs suggested. “We’ll pull off some tiles and you can lower me down.”

Nick laced his fingers and Higgs stepped into them. Nick lifted him with a grunt. Higgs grabbed at the roof ledge and scrabbled his way on up, swinging his long legs wildly. Nick signaled to Saint to boost him up after Higgs.

Once they were both up, Nick and Peregrine worked several roof tiles loose and peered into the blackness of the magazine. A whiff of sulfur rose to meet their nostrils.

“Wish me luck,” Higgs said as he let his legs dangle into the opening.

“Steady on, lad.” Nick stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “If I don’t bring you back in your present configuration, Miss Smythe will never forgive me. I’m the one who’s going in. You’re getting off this roof and pulling the men back to a safe distance.”

A single spark was all it would take for the magazine to go up like a Roman candle.

“You might need me,” Peregrine said with a grin and disappeared down the hole.

Nick leaned over the opening, trying to see. “Blast and damn, Higgs. This is no time to disobey a direct order.”

“You can order me flogged later,” came the disrespectful reply.

“I think you’re in the main chamber. Pick your feet up. You don’t want a spark,” Nick hissed at him, then turned to direct the others on the ground. “Get back, all of you. We’ll signal when the door is open.”

Then Nick lowered himself into the blackness. When he dropped the few feet to the stone floor, the slap of his boots striking the pavers sounded unnaturally loud. He didn’t move for a moment, waiting for his vision to sharpen in the darkness. The single shaft of moonlight
flooded the chamber with shades of gray. Nick made out barrels stacked around the room more than shoulder high.

“The door’s over here,” Higgs whispered.

“That’ll only be the interior door,” Nick said. “We need some more light.”

The inner door opened with the lifting of the latch. Nick led the way through the portal and into the narrow corridor that ringed the cache of powder. Once they left the central chamber, all trace of moonlight fled and they plunged into tarry blackness.

The magazine was designed as a box within a box, both sets of walls fashioned of limestone blocks and each a couple feet thick. Nick ran his fingers along the inner wall, searching for a lantern recess. Once he found one, he pulled out his flint and tinder.

“Let’s hope the governor’s men are better at keeping this passage clean of powder than they are at guarding it,” Nick said as he trimmed the wick and lit the lamp by feel alone.

Yellow light flooded the narrow white-washed space. A thin pane of vellum stretched across the back of the recess. It allowed lamplight to penetrate the inner chamber without the risk of open flame.

“I’ll light the other lamps,” Nick said. “Get to work on the outer door, Pere.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Higgs moved back down the corridor, whistling through his teeth, heedless of the fact that one moment’s inattention might blow them both to the stars.

Damn, if the scamp isn’t enjoying this.
That flirtation with Miss Smythe was turning the staid and reasonable Higgs into a daredevil.

And about time,
Nick thought with a grin.

By the time Nick had all the lanterns lit, Higgs had pried open the door and the first barrels of powder were being carefully rolled down the hill to Tobacco Bay. Nick relieved Higgs and took up his station in the powder room, handing the barrels out to waiting hands. There was no need to risk more than one person in that volatile chamber at a time.

The workers were silent; the only sound was the scrape of boots at the threshold. Then came the occasional thud of a wooden barrel against a rock or bared tree root. And lastly, the eternal breath of the sea rushing over them.

Nick kept a tally in his head, starting the count afresh once he’d handed out the hundredth barrel.

Perhaps this is going to work.

The low warning cry of a teal made Nick freeze. The lookouts were signaling.

“We’re done here,” Nick said as he carried out the barrel he was holding and shoved it into Saint’s arms. He pulled the door to the magazine closed behind him.

“But there are half a dozen barrels left,” Saint complained.

“If what the colonials already have stowed in the whaleboats isn’t enough to satisfy them, I’d be pleased to take it back,” Nick said, fingering the loaded pistol he’d shoved into his belt.

“No, no,” Saint said. “This will do.”

“Good. Higgs, go with them and bring the
Susan B
home. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Nick’s crew scattered like leaves before a gale.

He drew his pistol and loped toward the lookouts, bent double to make himself a smaller target in case the governor’s guard was abroad with their muskets.

When he reached his lookouts, he found Tatem and Dunscombe standing over something, shoving each other back and forth, nearly ready to come to blows.

“You coulda just cracked his noggin,” Tatem was saying in a furious whisper.

“He’s a damn Frog,” Dunscombe growled. “What’s it to you?”

“Report, Mr. Tatem,” Nick said softly as he joined them. A body lay at Dunscombe’s feet. The dead man was wearing a French officer’s uniform.

“This feller were nosin’ about, Cap’n,” Tatem began.

“And I didn’t bloody well like the look of him, not by half,” Dunscombe interrupted.

“So you killed him.” Nick turned the man over with his foot. The Frenchman’s throat had been slit, his blood blackening the white cravat elegantly tied at his neck. The epaulets at his shoulders marked him as a man of rank.

“Aye, Cap’n. I figgered we didn’t need the likes of him tellin’ what he knows about our business.” Dunscombe folded his beefy arms over his chest.

“This Frenchman is an officer. Likely on parole,” Nicholas said. The British navy frequently dropped enemy combatants on Bermuda. Once they gave their word they wouldn’t engage in further hostilities against England, the soldiers and sailors were given free run of the island. “Someone’s bound to miss him. See to it no one finds his body. With luck, the authorities will believe he broke his parole and took ship.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Dunscombe said with a snaggletoothed grin. “I knows just where to stash him.”

“Mr. Tatem, give him a hand.”

“See, what did I say?” Dunscombe lifted the feet of the dead man and nodded to Tatem to grasp him under
the armpits. “Killin’ a Frog weren’t no cause for complaint.”

Nick snatched Dunscombe up by his greasy collar. The Frenchman’s legs dragged bonelessly on the ground.

“Mr. Dunscombe, you have killed a man tonight. Not a frog. And by stealth, too, from the looks of it.” Nick gave Dunscombe a jaw-rattling shake. “Think, you dunderhead. That Frenchman wasn’t likely to report stolen powder. He’d have been more likely to roll the barrels to the beach with us since it would hurt the Crown.”

Truth to tell, the paroled officer was probably scouting the area for a possible French raid on the unguarded magazine.

Damn the governor’s incompetence!
Weakness was a prayer to the devil. It always invited attack. If the powder had been well guarded in the first place, the Americans might not have blackmailed the Bermudians for it.

Nicholas glared down at the dead man.
Damn you, too, for being in the wrong place.

“Once this night’s work is done, come round to collect your pay, Dunscombe. You no longer have a berth on my ship.”

Nick stalked away, trying to dust the black powder from his hands. He had betrayed his sovereign, stolen from his own military and a man had died because of Nick’s decision to place the welfare of the island above his king.

He didn’t think it was possible to feel any dirtier.

Eve rose to add more water to the big kettle. Its intermittent whistle kept her from drifting off to sleep. When Nicholas returned home, he’d want a bath.

And she would wait for him with water on the boil.

Nick was in danger and she couldn’t rest till she knew he was safe. She was an unmarried woman waiting in a man’s chamber, preparing his bath. There was no disguising what that made her. But she almost didn’t care what sort of name the world would hang about her neck anymore.

All that mattered was Nick coming home safe.

When she heard his tread in the hall, she rose to her feet and skittered to open the door. He was stopped, head bowed, outside the door to her chamber, one arm against the doorjamb, bracing himself upright.

“Nicholas.” She ran down the hall to him.

When she would have hugged him close, he held her away.

“Keep clear of me, Eve. I just wanted to let you know I’ve returned.” His voice had a ragged edge. “I’m covered with powder.” His words sank to a whisper. “You’ll only dirty yourself with me.”

“Then let’s get you clean,” she whispered back. She caught up his hand. It was grimy, but she refused to release it. He let her lead him down the corridor to his chamber, where the hip bath waited.

He stood still while she peeled off his garments one by one, but his dark eyes followed her every move.

“These will be the very devil to get clean,” she murmured, glancing at his clothes.

“Burn them.”

She nodded. That made sense. She thought she could salvage his breeches and shirt, but once the theft came to light, this much powder on a man’s jacket would be incriminating. She’d see to burning it first thing in the morning.

“All went well?” she asked as she ran her gaze over him, checking for wounds. He seemed unscathed.

“A man was killed.”

Eve gasped. “Who?”

“No one you know.”

He sank into the waiting bathwater even though it was cold. Eve wrapped a hot pad around the kettle handle and grasped it with both hands.

“Spread your knees,” she said.

When he obeyed her, she poured in the steaming water, taking care not to hit him with it. The thought that Nick might have killed someone that night flitted through her mind. She didn’t see any blood on him or his clothes.

“Was it one of the colonials?” she asked softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Perhaps it was best if she didn’t know. She pressed her lips tight and knelt beside the bath. It was enough that he was safe. He’d tell her more when he needed to.

She picked up the jar of soap and a cloth and began sudsing one hand, taking care to scrub away every trace of blackness. Once his skin glowed with cleanliness, she turned to his other hand.

He watched her in wonderment. She had every reason to be upset with him. It was a minor miracle that she was even still in his house, much less in his chamber.

Why could he not give her what she wanted?

He felt the love he knew she craved, but he couldn’t speak the words. It should be a simple matter.

I love you, Eve Upshall.

They’d danced on the end of his tongue any number of times. Never more tantalizingly than right now. But he knew why he wouldn’t say them.

He didn’t
deserve
to speak those words.

“Lean forward and I’ll wash your back,” she said matter-of-factly, as if this were a service she performed for him with regularity. A wifely duty.

As her hands ran over his skin, the tension drained from his muscles. She scooped up a dipper of water and poured it over his head, careful to shield his eyes with her hand. Then she washed his hair, kneading his scalp.

Her love washed over him with every touch. Forgiveness. Peace.

The temptation to accept it was too great for him to bear. When she knelt down beside the tub to scrub his chest, he noticed her gown was wet. Her breasts showed through the thin material as clearly as if she was naked. Her nipples were clearly visible beneath the muslin. He reached over and circled one with the pad of his thumb.

Her lips parted and her breath caught. She met his gaze and he saw his own face reflected back in her pale eyes. He squeezed her nipple and her eyelids drooped languidly.

“Eve—”

“The water’s getting cold.” She rose quickly and walked to the fire. The shadows of her long legs beneath her gown made his groin twitch.

He soaped himself quickly and stood. Water sluiced down his body in soapy runnels. “I don’t need more hot water.”

She turned and stood there with the kettle in both hands. Her gaze swept over him, lingering on his cock.

Just when he thought he couldn’t get any harder.

He climbed out of the bath and walked toward her. “Put the kettle down, lass, before you burn someone.”

“Of course.” She gave herself a slight shake and obeyed him. Her eyebrows drew together and her chin quivered.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…I was so afraid for you.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He was still wet from the bath, but he felt her hot tears against his skin.

“I’m a traitor to the Crown, Eve.” He palmed both her cheeks. “I don’t deserve a woman’s tears.”

“Maybe not.” She forced her lips into a tremulous smile. “But you have mine.”

He kissed her cheek, tasting the salty drops, then her lips. “I won’t make you cry again, Eve. I promise.”

He dropped to his knees before her and pressed his mouth against her belly through the muslin gown.

“If womankind had tuppence for every time a man promised that, we’d own the Bank of England.” A little ginger returned to her tone and she ruffled his wet hair with her fingertips.

He laughed and ran his hands up her legs, lifting the hem of her gown. She went still when he stopped at the triangle of auburn hair between her legs. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss there. Her breath hissed over her teeth.

She’d performed a wifely service for him. He’d perform a lover’s service for her.

He cupped her bottom and drew her close. “Spread your legs.”

He buried his face in the crisp, curly hairs, inhaling her woman’s scent. When he kissed her this time, he
slipped his tongue between her soft folds, tasting her musky sweetness. The fragrance and taste of her went straight to his balls and they tensed into a tight bunch.

He willed his body to relax. This was for Eve.

He tongued her slowly, finding between those soft pink lips the little pearl that would pleasure her most. He sucked. He circled with the tip of his tongue.

She gasped. She trembled.

He spread her with both hands and laved her roughly. His cock ached with need.

She was saying something incoherent. Amid her whispered curses, he heard his name over and over.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but he steadied her and held her upright. He wouldn’t let her go. Not until he’d broken her with pleasure.

He slipped two fingers inside her as he continued to torment her with his mouth.

“Oh, Nick.”

He felt her tense. She was close. He gave her a light nip, just to push her over the edge.

Her whole body shook as her inner walls squeezed his fingers. Her release pounded around him. When the last contraction ended, she collapsed bonelessly into his waiting arms. He cradled her against his chest and cupped her quivering sex with his hand.

He rocked her as she settled, crooning little endearments in her ear. He kneaded her sex softly.

“No, no more,” she pleaded when the tip of one of his fingers grazed her sensitive spot. “I can’t bear it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, love,” he whispered, and carried her off to his bed.