The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
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‘An argument between two men over a woman,’ Gunner said slowly. ‘The other pirate...’
‘It is a possibility.’
‘The only fly in the ointment is her mourning weeds.’
‘Are they mourning weeds? A ship that flies a black sail is not in mourning.’
Gunner looked at him and said slowly, ‘A pirate’s woman might dress as a pirate.’
Kit said nothing.
‘And if she is a pirate’s woman?’ Gunner asked.
‘It makes no difference. As long as we have La Voile’s body she is not our concern. We offload her in Antigua in the morning. Let them ship her back to Louisiana. We have bigger things to think of.’ Like getting La Voile’s body back to London. Like returning to face what he had left behind. ‘Post a guard on La Voile’s body in the meantime.’
‘You think she is capable of sabotage?’
‘I think we should not underestimate Kate Medhurst. I will breathe easier when she is gone.’ And he would. Because every time he thought of her, he felt desire stir through his body. She was temptation, to a life he had long left behind, to a man he no longer was. And that was a road Kit had no intention of revisiting.
* * *
The purple-grey-green silhouette of Antigua loomed large before them. The haze of the early morning would burn off as the day progressed, but for now the sun sat behind a shroud that did not mask the brightness from the daylight. Within the rowing boat there was no sound other than the rhythmic creak and dip of the oars and their pull of the water. No one in Raven’s small party spoke.
The wind that was usually so mercifully cooling seemed unwelcome at this hour with the lack of sun, making Kate’s skin goosepimple beneath the thin black muslin. Or maybe it was just the sight of North in his place at the other end of the boat.
His eyes were sharp as the raven’s perched upon his shoulder and strayed her way too often, making her remember the lean strength in his body, and the scent of him, and the feel of his skin against hers...and the way he had stroked the hair from her cheek. Making her feel things she had never thought to feel again; things that appalled her to feel for him of all men. And she was gladder than ever that this was the end of her journey with him.
But there was a small traitorous part of her that, now she was safe, wondered what might have happened between them were it not the end. Just the thought turned her cold with shame and guilt. She pushed it away, denying its existence, as much as she denied the tension between them was not all adversarial. And turned her mind to wondering as to her crew and Coyote’s fate.
North was right, these waters were rife with Baratarian pirates and privateers; one of Jean Lafitte’s boys had probably already found and helped the stricken ship. Sunny Jim knew what he was doing and would get them all back safe to Tallaholm, and she felt better at that thought.
* * *
‘Something is not right,’ Kit said softly to Gunner as they stood before Fort Berkeley on the island not so much later. Jones the Purser and five ordinary seamen who had rowed across with them had stayed in the main town, St John’s, to procure water and the list of required victuals. Kate Medhurst stood just in front of him, surveying the yellow-washed walls of the fort that guarded the entrance to English Harbour. She was more relaxed than he had seen her, now that they were about to part company, her secrets intact. He wondered what they were. He wondered too much about her, he thought, as his eyes lingered on the way the wind whipped and fluttered the thin black muslin of her skirt against the long length of her legs. He turned his focus back to the fort and what it was that he did not like about it.
Gunner gave a nod. ‘I get that same feeling.’
‘No guard outside the gate.’ His eyes scanned, taking in every detail.
‘And apart from the lookout in the watchtower, not another soul to be seen,’ murmured Gunner.
‘Silent as a graveyard, and a gate that should be opening, demanding to know our business by now.’
Kate Medhurst glanced round at him, as if she was thinking the same.
‘Wait here with the woman, Gunner. If I am not back in fifteen minutes—’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Kate Medhurst interrupted, as if she did not trust him.
‘Maybe Mrs Medhurst has a point,’ said Gunner. ‘You should have someone at your back.’ He touched a hand lightly to his cutlass.
Eventually they were admitted through the fort’s gate by a lone marine in a coat faded pink by the sun and taken to see the admiral. The distant dry docks were empty, not a man could be seen working in the repair yards, not a man on the tumbleweed parade ground. Within the yellow-painted building every room was deserted. Not one other person did they pass along those corridors and staircases lined with paintings of maritime battles. And for all of that way there was a faint smell of rancid meat in the air.
‘It’s like a ghost town,’ Kate Medhurst whispered by his side and she was right. ‘Is this normal for a British fort?’
‘Anything but,’ replied Kit softly.
‘Something is definitely off.’ Gunner’s quiet voice held the same suspicion that Kit felt.
He shifted his coat so that his hand would have easier access to both the pistol holstered on his hip and his cutlass and saw Gunner do the same.
The marine eventually led them through a door mounted with a plaque that read Admiral Sir Ralston.
The office was large and more grandly decorated than many a ton drawing room. Ornate, gilded, carved furniture filled it, along with a massive sideboard that looked as though it might have been brought from Admiralty House. There was a large black-marble fireplace, although the hearth was empty save for a pile of scrunched balls of paper which were clearly discarded letters. The windows had roman blinds of indiscriminate colour, pulled halfway up the glass, and were framed by fringed curtains that might once have been dark blue, but were now somewhere between pale blue and grey. From the ceiling in the centre of the room hung a crystal chandelier. But despite all of this faded opulence there was an unkempt feel about the place.
The great desk was littered with a mess of paperwork and documents. A thick layer of dust covered the window sill and every visible wooden surface. It sat on the back of the winged armchair by the fireplace and turned the ringed, empty crystal decanter and silver tray that sat on the nearby drum table opaque. It hung with cobwebs from the chandelier. But the two things that concerned Kit more than any of this were the stench of rum in the room and that the man that sat on the other side of the desk was not Admiral Sir Ralston.
‘Acting Admiral John Jenkins, at your service, sir. I am afraid Admiral Sir Ralston died a sennight since.’ Jenkins was younger than Kit, no more than five and twenty at the most, with fine fair hair that stuck to a sweaty brow, red-rimmed eyes and thick determined lips.
‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. My condolences to you and your men.’
Jenkins gave a nod and gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk. ‘Take a seat. May I offer you a drink?’ He produced a bottle of rum from the drawer of his desk.
‘There is a lady present, sir,’ said Gunner.
‘Beg pardon,’ Jenkins said and sat the half-empty bottle on top of a book on the desk. ‘How are matters in London?’
‘I have no idea.’ Kit had no intention in wasting time in small talk. ‘What has happened here?’
‘We are awaiting reinforcements. They are due any day now.’
‘You have not answered my question. Why do you need reinforcements?’
‘We have lost almost all the men.’
‘How?’
There