The Pirate's Willing Captive Read online

  ‘You are a pirate and an ignorant barbarian.’ Perhaps because Maribel felt ashamed of her weakness in not fighting him sooner, her voice was laced with scorn, every inch the haughty lady.

  ‘The barbarians were not as ignorant as you might imagine. In some ways their culture outstrips our own.’ Justin smiled, more amused than angry. ‘Had I been the ruthless devil you would have me, you would be warming my bed this night before I gave you to my men for their sport.’

  Maribel drew back in shock, her eyes wide with horror.

  A smile touched his mouth. ‘Nay, I shall not treat you so ill. You may be a shrew, but you are a lady and I shall treat you as such. You will not be harmed while we hold you for ransom.’

  ‘How can I trust your word?’ She would be a fool to believe him for an instant, but something inside her responded despite herself.

  Anne Herries lives in Cambridgeshire, where she is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment, and to give pleasure to her readers. She is a winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romance Prize.

  Previous novels by the same author:

  MARRYING CAPTAIN JACK

  THE UNKNOWN HEIR

  THE HOMELESS HEIRESS

  THE RAKE’S REBELLIOUS LADY

  A COUNTRY MISS IN HANOVER SQUARE*

  AN INNOCENT DEBUTANTE IN HANOVER SQUARE*

  THE MISTRESS OF HANOVER SQUARE*

  * * *

  *A Season in Town trilogy

  and in the Regency series

  The Steepwood Scandal:

  LORD RAVENSDEN’S MARRIAGE

  COUNTERFEIT EARL

  and in The Hellfire Mysteries:

  AN IMPROPER COMPANION

  A WEALTHY WIDOW

  A WORTHY GENTLEMAN

  The Pirate’s Willing Captive

  Anne Herries

  I thank all my readers for their continued support.

  Prologue

  Spring 1557

  The man walked away from the hostelry on the waterfront deep in thought. He had booked passage on a ship bound for France and it might be many years before he returned home. He was filled with regret and anger for he had parted from his father with bitter words.

  ‘You take the word of others above mine, Father—you would believe a stranger above your own son.’

  Justin Devere’s blue eyes had flashed with pride, making Sir John snort impatiently. ‘You were a damned fool, Justin. By God, sir! There is no excuse for what you have done. You are the great-grandson of Robert Melford and a more devoted supporter of the Crown could not be found. Your grandfather was much favoured by King Henry VIII—and my own family has always been loyal. By becoming involved in this conspiracy to murder Queen Mary and replace her with the Princess Elizabeth you have let your whole family down. I am ashamed of you!’

  ‘No, sir. You wrong me…’

  Justin raised his head defiantly. He was a handsome devil, with pale blond hair and deep blue eyes; reckless, arrogant and dismissive of rules, he stood head and shoulders above most men, including his father. His grandfather said he was a throwback to Robert Melford in temperament and build, though not in colouring. He was also fiercely proud and it pricked his pride to hear his father call him a fool.

  ‘You have spoken treason against the Queen and that cannot be tolerated.’

  ‘It was no such thing, sir!’ Justin declared passionately. ‘I will grant that some hotheads have talked of such a plot in my hearing, but I am innocent of any conspiracy—as is the princess herself. She was gracious enough to grant me an audience; many of us wished her to know that we support her and if any attempt were made to disbar her from inheriting the throne when the Queen dies we should rise to her—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ John Devere thundered. ‘Do you not realise that that in itself is sufficient to have you arrested for treason?’

  ‘I shall not be silent, sir. I am as loyal an Englishman as any, but I cannot love a Catholic queen who puts good Englishmen to the fire in the name of religion.’

  ‘It is not so many years since we were all Catholic and proud of it,’ Justin’s father reminded him. ‘King Hal saw fit to break with Rome and we were all forced to follow or lose our favour at court, but that does not mean—’ He broke off, for the anger was writ plain on Justin’s face. ‘While the Queen lives ’tis treason to speak of her death and well you know it.’

  ‘We did not plot to murder her, merely to protect our own Elizabeth.’

  ‘Surely it is enough that talk of your conspiracy has reached her Majesty? The Princess has herself faced questions from the Queen regarding treason and was lucky that her Majesty was in good humour because her husband has promised to visit her soon. Had it not been for that fortunate circumstance, she might have found herself in the Tower once more.’ John placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Go to France or Spain, Justin. I know that though you have done wrong your heart was good. You have my blessing. Send me word of your situation and as soon as I think the coast clear you may return.’

  ‘You would have me flee like a coward?’ Justin’s face reflected his disgust.

  ‘I would have you live, sirrah! Stay and I may have no son to inherit my estate—and that will break your mother’s heart.’

  Lost in the memory of the bitter quarrel with his father, Justin did not notice the shadows behind him. Not until it was too late did he realise that he had been followed from the hostelry. Even as he turned, about to draw his sword, a crashing blow to the back of his head sent him to the ground and he lost consciousness as he was carried aboard a ship, not as the passenger he had paid to be, but to serve before the mast.

  Chapter One

  Spain—autumn 1558

  ‘No, Father, please do not ask it of me.’ The girl faced the tall man with iron-grey hair defiantly. He was a man of wiry stature, elegantly dressed in black with only one jewel of note, which was a ring made from gold and black agate to denote his mourning for his late wife. ‘I am not ready to marry again. I know you are grieving and you wish a better life for me, but I would rather stay at home with you.’

  ‘It is nearly a year since Don Pablo died.’

  Don Miguel Sabatini’s face was cold as he looked at his beautiful daughter. With her dark hair dressed in ringlets in the Spanish way, she reminded him of his first wife, whom he had come to hate after learning she had played him false with a lover. Her eyes were those of a temptress, a wanton wretch who had betrayed him, leaving a scar that would never heal. When he looked at Maribel’s face he saw the pride of her English mother, a pride he had never been able to break despite his treatment of her, and the hatred burned cold and deep within him. His first wife had been a wanton, deceiving him with a man he had believed his friend. He had never forgiven her and his unkindness had driven her to the decline that led to an early grave. She swore that Maribel was his child, but he had never been certain and because of it could not love his daughter.

  However, his second wife Juanita, a gentle kindhearted woman, already past thirty when he wed her, had loved the motherless babe, and, unable to bear a living child herself, had taken the girl as her own, forcing him to show acceptance of a child he despised. It was she who had arranged Maribel’s marriage to her young cousin. Unfortunately the bridegroom had died at the hands of bandits while riding in the hills a few months after the wedding, and Juanita had insisted her much loved stepdaughter return to live with them. Maribel had been grieving for her young husband ever since.

  ‘You must marry, daughter. It is a woman’s
duty and her destiny.’

  ‘But I cannot put aside my feelings for Pablo so easily, sir. I loved him truly and I do not wish to marry again.’

  ‘I have written to a gentleman in England with whom I have business. He imports wine from our vineyards and a marriage between you would seal the alliance, make it stronger.’

  ‘But I do not know this man…’ Maribel protested, dark eyes flashing a protest. ‘You have not even told me his name.’

  ‘His name is not important, but since you will have it—he is Lord William Roberts of Helbourne.’ He waved his hand as if to dismiss her.

  Maribel refused to be dismissed so brusquely.

  ‘An English lord?’ Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him, saw the cold proud stance and felt again the hurt he had inflicted so often. Why was he so often unkind to her? What had she done to make him hate her, for she felt that his feeling went deeper than mere dislike? ‘How old is he? What manner of man is he? Please tell me, Father.’

  ‘What can his age signify?’ Don Miguel demanded with an icy stare. ‘He is of good character and rich—what more could you wish for?’

  ‘A man such as Don Pablo. He was young and handsome and I cared for him,’ Maribel said proudly. ‘He left me a fortune—so why should I marry for wealth when I do not need money?’

  ‘A woman alone cannot properly care for her estates. I have done what I can for you, daughter, but you should think of marriage. It is the right and proper course for you to follow. Surely you wish for a husband and children?’ His voice softened, took on a persuasive note. ‘You cannot wish to spend all your life in mourning for a man you hardly knew? He would have wished you to be happy.’

  ‘Yes…perhaps,’ Maribel faltered. When her father spoke softly to her she almost believed that he truly cared for her, and yet in her heart she knew that it was Juanita who had always stood between them, sheltering her from his anger. She thought sometimes that he had hated her from the moment she was born. However, Juanita had told her that he was a good man despite his stern ways and she believed her stepmother. If he felt she should marry this English lord, it might be for the best. To openly disobey him at a time when they were both grieving for the woman they had loved would be to show disrespect to Juanita’s memory. ‘I beg you will allow me time to consider this marriage, sir. I should like to meet the gentleman before making a commitment. ’

  ‘I will write and invite him to visit. He is a busy man. He may send someone in his stead—perhaps a portrait would ease your mind?’

  ‘I should like to see his likeness.’ Maribel moved forwards, her hand outstretched. ‘Please, give me a little time, sir. I have not yet recovered from my stepmother’s death. I loved her dearly.’

  ‘As did I, God rest her soul,’ Don Miguel said piously. ‘For Juanita’s sake I shall grant you a further few months, but I want you to make yourself ready, Maribel. It is my wish that you should marry soon.’

  Maribel inclined her head. From the tone of her father’s voice she knew herself dismissed. He had no more to say to her and considered the matter settled. No doubt he would invite Lord Roberts to visit them and arrange the wedding without further reference to her wishes.

  Going outside to the shaded courtyard, Maribel blinked to stop her tears. She had no wish to leave Spain for England, which was a country of which she knew little. Her mother had been an Englishwoman, but Maribel could not remember her, though she had lived until past her child’s second birthday when she had died of a fever after giving birth to a stillborn son. It must be because she was half-English that her father had decided she should marry this English lord.

  Maribel’s throat caught as she thought of her handsome young husband. He was but sixteen when they married, her own age at the time, and beautiful to look upon. Pablo Sanchez had a gentle nature. He was loving and kind, and he had treated Maribel as a sister. They had had fun riding together and playing foolish games. Something that no one else knew was that their marriage had never been consummated. Maribel was as much a virgin now as she had been on the day of her wedding.

  Perhaps if her father understood that she was still virgin he would have some sympathy for her, but she could never tell him for it would shame her.

  The future loomed dark and forbidding before her. She had been granted a few more months, but she knew the time would come when her father would force her to marry the man of his choosing.

  * * *

  ‘Cut him down and carry him below,’ Justin commanded of the sailors. He had just been compelled to order the flogging of one of the crew for disobedience and it had taken all his self-control not to snatch the cruel whip from the bosun’s hand. ‘We must tend his wounds.’

  ‘Aye, that we must,’ Higgins growled. ‘’Tis a wonder the poor lad bore it as well as he did.’

  ‘I know it well enough.’

  Justin did not remind the man that he had been lashed the first time he disobeyed the monster that was their captain. On waking with a crashing headache that first morning to discover that he was aboard a strange ship and bound for the east, Justin had at first refused to take orders from Captain Smythe and his bosun. However, a lashing at the mast had made him realise that he had little choice but to obey. It was entirely due to the first mate Higgins’s care of him that he had recovered.

  Gradually, over the months, Justin had found his sea legs and gained the respect of the rest of the crew. He knew that they looked to him for a lead, and that most of them were at the point of mutiny. The time was coming when he must act, but for the moment the injured lad was his main concern.

  Once they were safely below decks, they laid the young sailor on a mattress of blankets and sacking and Higgins began to wash away the blood as carefully as he could. The sailor had fainted after forty lashes and was unaware as the man tended his wounds with a salve. When he had finished, Higgins looked up at Justin.

  ‘The men can’t take much more of this, sir. They are looking to you for a lead.’

  ‘You are talking of mutiny?’

  ‘Aye, sir—common justice, I call it. The captain and his bosun must be put overboard in the night. Some of the officers are ready to join us, but any that refuse will go with the captain. The men think you should be their captain. They will follow you, sir—wherever you lead us.’

  ‘I have heard the whispers. I am honoured by your trust in me, Higgins. Do the men understand that if we do this we shall be outlaws—forced to earn our living by piracy? If we were taken, we should all hang. This ship sails under the Queen’s flag. Some of you may have signed of your own free will. I was press-ganged against my will, but it would not save me. I should hang with the rest of you.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll all hang if they take us, sir—but some of us think it worth the risk. A year or two as privateers and we can live like kings for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘We’ll be pirates, make no mistake, Higgins. A privateer sails with the Queen’s blessing and I think we shall not be granted such a dispensation.’

  ‘Aye, sir. The men know it.’

  Justin’s gaze narrowed. ‘If I agree to this, there must be as little bloodshed as possible. I shall not stand by and see old scores settled. If I am to be master then the men will obey my rules. I shall not flog a man for a petty offence, but if a man murders a comrade he will hang. I am no soft touch and it is best the crew understand it before we begin.’

  ‘We’ll sail by the laws of the brethren. We all know what is involved, sir—and we’re all behind you to a man.’

  Justin hesitated, then, ‘Very well. The men will wait for my signal. Do we know who is with us amongst the officers?’

  ‘The bosun will side with the captain, and perhaps Mr Hendry—all the others are as sick of their brutality as the rest of us.’

  ‘Mr Hendry has the keys to the arsenal. We shall need that if we are to succeed.’

  ‘He may resist, sir.’

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Justin’s eyes gleamed with excitement. A life of piracy was not
one he would have chosen, but now that it had been thrust upon him he saw that it was his only chance. If he refused, the men would butcher the captain, officers and midshipmen, and he would receive a knife in the back. Besides, it offered an adventure and freedom from the tyrant who had made all their lives a misery. ‘When Hendry comes on late watch I shall offer him the chance to join us. If he refuses, he will be made captive until we have the ship—and then we shall put the men ashore. We are not far from the coast of Venice. The captain and officers can stay there until an English ship makes port and takes them home.’

  ‘They will tell their tales of us, sir—we shall be hunted across the seas.’

  ‘We shall be the hunters, Higgins. We’ll head for Cyprus and refit and rename the ship. She needs trimming down to make her faster. We might sell her and buy something more in keeping with our trade. Trust me, I have learned much these past months and my mathematics are good; I know what is needed to improve her speed.’

  ‘Aye, sir, we all know it. You will make a good captain—and you’ll have the men behind you. Willing hands make light work.’

  Justin smiled—he knew that the men often disobeyed orders or deliberately took their time carrying out their tasks as their only means of revenge on a master they hated.

  ‘Tell the men to be ready for my signal.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain Sylvester.’

  Higgins saluted and left him alone with their patient. Justin smiled. He had given a false name to the bosun when he was first ordered to report for duty. No one knew his true identity and he would never reveal it. He was Sylvester and would now be the captain of a pirate vessel; for he had no doubt that they could take the ship. Justin was not sure that first officer Hendry would be prepared to sail with them as pirates, but he would be given his chance. If he could achieve it, the mutiny would take place with no loss of life, but he accepted that there might be casualties. Facing reality, he understood that he could not ply his trade without some bloodshed, but he would offer a safe passage to the crews of the ships they took. If they refused…Justin’s expression hardened. They would do what was necessary and no more.