Page 1 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

Nassau, New Providence, Siren’s Revenge Punch House, 1717

The Ring swayed over Slippery Crock’s grime-encrusted waistcoat, winking at Captain Blake Keene in the lantern light. The bloated cockerel slammed yet another shot of rum into the back of his mouth before running a sleeve beneath his nose and snorting like a pig in heat.

The Ring .

Blake should tear it from the snake’s neck, but the pirate’s three over-sized mongrels he called a crew stood behind him, eyeing the card game with black scowls, clearly itching for a fight.

He glanced at his cards and then at the pile of doubloons glittering in the center of the table. Thus far, he had proven his skill at Piquet, earning more winnings than he thought old Crock possessed. But the blasted maggot refused to give up, insisting louder and louder with each glass of rum that he would rob Blake of his ship, his coins, and his clothes before the night ended.

Crock’s belch roared over the clamor of a concertina in the corner, along with the shouts, insults, and slurs of a punch house full of pirates deep in their cups. A barmaid slammed another bottle of rum onto the table, winked at Blake, and sashayed away. His gaze followed her swaying hips. It had been a long while since he’d indulged in female company.

Four dark figures in the distance caught his eye—olive-skinned men dressed in black from their tricorns to the dark cloaks cast about their shoulders, down to their silver-spurred boots. Not pirates. Blake could spot a pirate blindfolded. Nay, these men did not fit in this place. Neither were they drinking. Instead, Blake found their glances oft landing on him. Or was it Slippery Crock they sought?

Cursing, Crock tossed down a card, snapping Blake’s gaze back to the game. Standing behind him, his quartermaster, Finnegan Wix, chuckled. The sweet scent of tobacco emanating from the man’s ever-present pipe showered down on Blake, bringing an odd comfort.

Crock shot him a seething look.

Finn was right. Blake would win this round, the entire pot, and an extra ten pounds’ worth of silver ducats Crock said he was good for. Finally, he would have the slippery cur right where he wanted him.

Blake laid out the final card. Its snap against the crusty table sealed Crock’s doom as the sight of the ace narrowed his dark eyes and tied his already crooked grin into a knot.

“That’ll do it then. Pay up, you swag-bellied toad!” Blake’s bosun, Claude Maston, shouted in his ever-so-slight French accent from behind him. One of only two crewmen Blake had brought. Would they suffice should fisticuffs ensue?

One of Crock’s henchmen sneered and spat to the side.

Slippery Crock seemed to be having trouble breathing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he blinked uncontrollably as he stared at the fortune he had just lost. “I’ve got nothin’ left, ye thievin’ barracuda! Ye cheatin’, lyin’ son of a whore! I’ll ’ave yer throat fer this!”

Crock’s henchmen gripped the hilt of their blades as their captain started to rise.

Blake heaved a weary sigh and raised his hand. “Sit down, Crock. Hear me out. I have a proposition.”

The old pirate, whose scaly skin resembled his name, swayed on his feet, gripped the edge of the table, and slumped back to his chair, uttering curses that would make a slattern blush.

One of his men drew a pistol. Before he could cock it and point it at Blake, both of Blake’s men drew their weapons and leveled them at Crock.

A few nearby patrons glanced their way in anticipation of a fight.

“The Ring around your neck.” Blake nodded toward the jewel. “Add it to the pot, and I’ll play you one more game. Winner takes all.”

A slow grin coiled the knave’s thin lips. “All?”

“Aye. You win, you get everything, including the Ring.”

Crock snorted. “I’ll play ye one more game, but I’m not puttin’ the Ring in.” He poured more rum into his glass.

“The Ring goes in, or I take my coins now and leave.”

Crock’s dirt-encrusted forehead wrinkled as he fingered the ancient jewel. “What’s got ye so fired up ’bout this Ring? It ain’t worth that much, save fer the gold it be made of. Don’t even know what these strange etchin’s and words mean.”

Blake grinned. “Let’s just say I collect artifacts.”

Slippery Crock snorted, wrinkling his over-sized nose as if he smelled something foul. “Why would ye give up so much fer a blasted piece o’ jewelry?”

One of the henchmen—the larger one who resembled a bull—hmphed. “We had nothin’ but bad luck since ye got that Ring, Cap’n. Get rid o’ it, says I.”

Crock shot his crewmen a scathing look. “I’m the captain, an’ it’ll be me who decides!” Turning back around, he pawed the Ring again. “An’ I jist ain’t sure.”

“Fine by me. I’ll take my winnings and go.” Slowly rising, Blake drew a pouch from his belt and began gathering the pile of coins. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

Crock growled. “All right, all right. Hold yer squid. Winner takes all it be.” He yanked the Ring from the cord and tossed it on the table.

Finn chuckled.

Blake smiled.

The game began. He knew he could easily beat Crock in his inebriated condition, but he found his eyes constantly wandering to the Ring. He’d been searching for the artifact for a year, ever since the old Jewish pirate had told Blake about it right before he died. And now it was so close , so close , he had but to grab it.

He would do just that, if it weren’t for the bloodthirsty look on Crock’s crew—and the men in the shadows staring his way. No doubt Crock had more allies in this punch house than Blake knew about.

A group of sailors took up a ditty to the screech of an off-key fiddle. A fight ensued to his right, and a parrot squawked overhead, but Blake paid the noises no mind. Instead, after several agonizing minutes of trading cards and keeping score, he laid out his final card while slipping his hand to the hilt of his cutlass.

Crock would not take the loss well.

’Twas an understatement, for the man leapt from his seat, grabbed the table with the ferocity of the Kraken itself, and overturned it. It crashed to the floor, sending doubloons flying. But not before Blake grabbed the Ring and jumped out of the way.

He slammed into a man as wide as a barrel, who cursed him, his mother, and the day he was born, and then shoved Blake so hard, he tumbled to the floor. The crack of a pistol sounded, and the shot whizzed by his head, missing it by inches. His men drew their blades, and before Blake could rise, Crock’s henchmen rushed forward, cutlasses in hand. Crock, however, dropped to his knees and scrambled over the sticky floor, gathering up as many coins as he could.

Shoving the Ring into his pocket, Blake plucked his blade from its sheath and took on one of Crock’s men who stormed his way.

Several pirates and not a few barmaids, scrambled across the floor like cockroaches, grabbing coins and ignoring Crock’s threats to gut them if they stole a single one.

Blake cared not a whit for the money. He had what he wanted. Now, to dispatch Crock and his men and be on his way. But the mongrel swinging his sword toward him was not so easily done away with.

Leaping out of the way of a thrust that would have sliced him in two, Blake spun and brought his cutlass to bear, clipping the beast on his massive thigh. The man seemed not to notice. Not a scream, screech, or shout did he utter amid the growls and barks pouring from his lips. And Blake began to wonder if he wasn’t part mongrel, after all.

The brute rushed blindly toward Blake, sword raised and teeth bared. Blake met his thrust with a counter-parry that pushed him back. But the man would not relent. Snapping his blade quickly to the left, he rammed it at Blake.

Blake veered to the right—just as the curvy barmaid who’d delivered their rum slammed a pitcher over the beast’s head. Eyes rolling back, he folded to the floor.

“Thanks, love!” Blake winked at her as he spun, blade raised, to face the next pirate.

Within minutes, more pirates joined the fight, swords slashed, pistols fired, tables crashed, and all the while someone continued playing the concertina in the background.

Quickly disposing of his current enemy, Blake sought his crew.

He found Maston parrying with a pirate who held a mug of ale in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Grabbing his bosun by the sleeve, he dragged him over to Finn, who had just sent his opponent flying over the top of the bar into a row of bottles that crashed to the floor.

While Crock’s two remaining henchmen were swept up in a brawl that grew larger by the minute, the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Perfect time to make an exit. Blake gestured toward the door and then led the way, shoving pirates aside as he went.

Sunlight, far too bright for the late afternoon, stung his eyes, along with a stiff salty breeze, and he blinked as he headed down the busy street. Finn and Maston came alongside him and chuckled.

“Haven’t ’ad that much fun in a while, Cap’n,” Finn exclaimed.

“ Mon dieu , you left all that money!” Maston shook his head with a sigh.

“Yet, gentlemen, I have in my possession something far more valuable.”

Before his men could comment, the door to the Siren’s Revenge squeaked open, and four men dressed all in black emerged.

They glanced toward Blake and started for him.

b

Grabbing a basket of fruit, bread, and cheese, Emeline Hyde approached the woman who had been standing in the distance staring her way for over an hour. Two young children, faces dirty and eyes vacant, clung to her stained and torn skirts. The closer Emeline drew, the more she could see that the woman wasn’t much older than her own age of one and twenty. Yet she was as thin as a mast, her cheeks sunken, with dark circles framing eyes that once must have had the luster of a turquoise sea but now were a hazy blue. No doubt she was a beauty in days past, but the ravages of hunger and poverty had wilted her bloom.

Grabbing her children, the woman started away.

“Nay, come back,” Emeline called, hastening her pace. “I have food.”

Hesitating, the woman glanced her way, a look of shame and desperation on her haggard face.

“It’s free,” Emeline added. “Stop, I pray.”

“Emmy!” Her mother’s shout drew her gaze over her shoulder where Juliana Hyde stood beside a wagon distributing sacks of rice and baskets of bread to the most bedraggled souls Emeline had seen in a long while. The look her mother gave her was one of “don’t go too far,” and Emeline nodded in return, a knowing exchange between them that she would be cautious.

Yet she was no more than ten yards from where her family was—her mother, father, sister Esther, and brother Caleb. And even though Nassau was fast becoming the new pirate haunt of the Caribbean, it was late afternoon and not yet dark. Most of the nefarious sorts had not emerged to their nighttime revelry.

Still, her father, Alexander Merrick Hyde, looked up from where he knelt to aid a crippled sailor, his penetrating eyes latching upon her.

Safe . She always felt safe when her father was around. The son of the infamous Captain Edmund Merrick, Alexander was next in line to be Earl of Clarendon, but he was also the fiercest ex-pirate who ever sailed the seas. The Pirate Earl they used to call him. Though no longer a pirate, but now a missionary of sorts, he still caused men to cower in his presence. He was a man not many dared to challenge, nor would they dare to harm any of his family.

Which is why Emeline always felt safe when he was near.

She waved and smiled, and he gave his nod in return. Aye, safe .

Turning back, she crept toward the timid lady. “Some food for you and your wee ones, Miss.”

The woman swallowed, her eyes shifting between Emeline’s before they lowered. “What d’ye want in return?”

“Nothing at all.” She held out the basket. “Please, take it.”

“Ain’t nothin’ free in this world, an’ I won’t be beholden to none.”

“But you’re wrong. There are at least two things free in this world. This food and the love and salvation of God through His Son, Jesus.”

The woman frowned as her eyes moistened with tears. She inched toward Emeline, took the basket, and dipped her head. “I take the food, Miss. Not sure Jesus cares ’bout the likes o’ me.”

Emeline smiled. “Of course He cares. ’Tis because of Him I am giving you this food.”

The woman looked down, turned, and headed down the street.

“We come here every month,” Emeline called after her, lifting up a prayer for the poor lady. Something terrible had happened to her, something she was ashamed of, something that had no doubt put her in this state of poverty.

Turning, Emeline started back to her family, wondering if there was something else she could have said or done. She stepped onto the street. The grind of wheels and clomp of hooves on the cobblestones jarred her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see an out-of-control horse and wagon barreling toward her.

Fear strangled her. She stared at them, unable to move.

The horse reared.

A man dove for her, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her out of the way. He stumbled to keep his balance but finally settled her back on her feet as the wagon careened past.

“What were you thinking? Be careful, Miss!” he shouted, clearly angry at having to save her.

Flustered, she raised her gaze to the most striking green eyes she’d ever seen . Almond-shaped, dark and mysterious, they seemed to harbor a treasure-trove of secrets. Capped by dark eyebrows in a strong, chiseled face with a Roman nose, thin black mustache, and dark stubble on his chin, her rescuer exuded an authority that belied his common sailor attire. Hair as dark as coal hung to his shoulders while a matching black pearl pierced his right ear.

And Emeline’s breath fled her.

At the sight of her, the harshness in his tone instantly softened, and the deep, soothing voice that emerged from his lips spiraled warmth through her.

“Forgive me, Miss, but you really should look where you are going.” One side of his lips quirked in a grin that only completed the entire mesmerizing dream—for surely that was all it was. No man had ever looked at her the way this pirate was doing now, as if he could see deep within her soul.

Ludicrous.

Another pirate yanked on the man’s sleeve and nodded down the street, tearing her rescuer’s gaze to a group of men in the distance. His demeaner changed, and he grabbed her skirts and began fluttering them about this way and that as if he were wiping away some invisible dirt.

The enchanting spell instantly broke. “How dare you!” Moving aside, Emeline batted him away.

But instead of an apology, he winked, grinned, and, before she could stop him, he drew near, kissed her cheek, then tore down the street with his two friends.

Heat swamped her face, and she lifted her hands to the spot his lips had touched. Heart racing, her emotions raged between outrage and something else, something she was too ashamed to admit.

Her father stood before her, peering into her face. “Are you all right, darling?”

“Aye, Papa. I nearly was run over by a wagon, but a man…” She looked down the road, but the enigmatic stranger was gone.

b

Three to four. Not good odds. Not great odds since the four men in black already had blades drawn. Sabers, if Blake was correct—longer swords with strange engravings on their silver hilts and a slight curve to the blades.

“The Ring.” The man who appeared to be the leader held out his palm. The accent. Spanish ? Italian ?

The last vestiges of the sun sank below the horizon, absconding with its golden light. But not before Blake saw the man’s face. If ever there was a sinister looking face, his was it. Not uncomely with his high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and hawk-like nose, but evil nonetheless. Hair the color of dirt was tied behind him cavalier-style, matching his pointed beard. But his eyes…an indescribable color, empty and devoid of life.

“What Ring?” Blake answered, nonchalantly.

The fist struck his face before he could defend himself. Finn and Maston started forward, but the press of four blades kept them at bay.

Pain radiated across Blake’s cheek and spiraled down his neck. “Ah, that Ring,” he said playfully, stretching his jaw.

“You have five seconds to give it to me, or you and your friends are fish bait.”

Blake raised his hands. “I don’t have it. I lost it in the fight. You were there. You saw how that reprobate Crock tipped over the table.”

Though he could no longer see the man’s eyes in the shadows, he felt them piercing into his very soul. A shiver ran down him. An unusual shiver.

“Search us.” Blake held out his hands.

The man snapped his fingers, never taking his eyes off Blake. And he got the impression he didn’t give a care whether he searched them dead or alive.

One of the men approached him, sheathed his blade, and began touching and patting his shirt and breeches. It took everything in Blake not to shove him to the ground. The humiliation, worse in front of his men, was not to be borne!

“Careful there,” Blake said. “Sorry, mate, but I’m spoken for.”

The man huffed his disdain.

Maston snorted out a chuckle.

Two other men searched Maston and Finn but came up empty.

A ship bell rang in the distance. Wind ripe with the scents of roasted pork and ale wafted over them as seconds turned into minutes. Still, the leader of this pack of wolves merely stared at them.

Finally, he breathed out a sigh. “I should kill you and be done.”

Shrugging, Blake inched his hand to the hilt of his blade. “Ah, but what a mess that would make. We have no quarrel with you, Sir. We are but lowly pirates trying to earn a dishonest living.”

The man snapped his fingers once again. Blake gripped his cutlass, prepared for the fight of his life. But the strange villain spun on his heels, his cloak swirling about him, and marched away, his lackeys following in his wake.

Blake allowed himself to breathe.

“Odd,” Maston commented, as if they’d just had tea with the gentlemen. “Guess you aren’t the only one after that Ring, Capitaine .”

Finn huffed and scratched his head beneath his ever-present gray bandana. “Good thing they left when they did, Cap’n. Me fingers were itchin’ t’ blast them all t’ the wind.”

“And a fine fight it would have been, my friend.” Slapping him on the back, Blake started back the way they came.

“Aren’t we going t’ the ship?” Finn asked.

“Nay. We’re going after the Ring.”

Maston laughed. “There’s more of a chance to find it in the sea than on the floor of that punch house, Capitaine .”

“It isn’t in the Siren’s Revenge ,” Blake responded. The only problem was, how would he find that enchanting lady again?