Page 10 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

“I

have some business to attend. I shan’t be long, Mademoiselle Lavigne.” Emeline halted at the parlor entrance, hesitating in case the woman was entertaining . Thank the good Lord she was alone at the moment. Not that Emeline hadn’t heard noises she’d rather not have heard during the long night, but no doubt the lady’s guests had left by now.

Red hair the color of burgundy wine fell from Mademoiselle Lavigne’s pins in a bounty of curls, a few of which draped over her shoulders onto a silk nightdress embroidered with flowers. A large dog curled up at her feet.

“Thank you, mademoiselle , for the meal and hot bath last night.” Emeline had been pleasantly surprised by both—the meal, a delicious potato bisque, boiled oysters, fresh bread, and cheese, and the bath something she’d desperately needed.

Mademoiselle Lavigne set down her cup of steaming tea and smiled at Emeline. “Call me Delphine, s'il vous plait . You are most welcome, my dear.” Her eyes twinkled in delight. “I see Miss Catherine’s gown fits you nicely.”

Emeline gripped the shawl covering her nearly bare bosoms more tightly about her neck. The gown was lovely, a peach taffeta, hemmed in lace, but the neckline was far too low and the bodice far too tight for any proper lady to wear. Yet she had no choice, for Miss Catherine was washing her only other gown.

Mademoiselle laughed. “I do see why Blake likes you. He’s unaccustomed to such modesty in a woman.”

“As I have tried to tell you, I am not his…his…” she could hardly say the word without blushing. “If you must know, he kidnapped me from my family, and I’m quite sure he abhors me.”

“Oh, I doubt that, my dear. No pirate would pay so handsomely for the care of a woman he abhors , as you say.”

Paid handsomely?

She shook her head. “I can hardly credit it. Perhaps he feels guilty for the monstrous way in which he treated me.”

“Ha! Guilt? From a pirate? Non , my innocent mademoiselle.” Sorrow suddenly clouded the woman’s face, and Emeline knew deep inside that the captain had hurt her somehow.

“Are you his mistress, Mademo i…Delphine?”

Again the lady laughed, only this time a shard of pain sharpened it. “Such boldness from a lady!” Rising, she spread a hand over her nightdress and sighed. “ Non . Though I would have it so, should he ask.” She moved to the unlit fireplace. The dog lifted his head. “Blake is a battered soul, unable to love, I fear. I believe due to a woman from his past, perhaps more than one.”

Indeed? Emeline suddenly found herself curious about the man. Though she could not fathom why. He’d done naught but cause her harm. “I perceive that he wounded you. I am sorry.”

Delphine’s gaze snapped to Emeline, both shock and agony pooling within her striking blue eyes. “How…?” She swallowed, then flicked her hand through the air. “Be back by supper or you won’t get a meal.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Outside, Emeline drew a deep breath of sea air, feeling sorry for Delphine. She’d always been critical of women like her, looking down at them for their sin and wickedness. But this woman had suffered greatly at the hands of men, that she knew. She dove her hand into her skirt pocket where she’d hidden the Ring. Perhaps ’twas this strange artifact that gave her such knowledge? Nay, impossible. Its powers hailed only from dark places.

Which is why she intended to throw it into the bay the first chance she got.

First, she must post a missive to Kingston, Jamaica. Even if her father was not there, surely one of her relatives would be at the Hyde Estate and would come to her rescue. She could not trust Captain Keene to have actually sent word.

The port city of Basseterre was just as busy as yesterday. Bells clanged, ships sailed into the bay with holds full of cargo, and citizens and slaves bustled about. After inquiring of an elderly couple where she might post a letter, she dove between a wagon and a carriage rumbling down the street and entered the postmasters.

With that task completed, she emerged to a sun high in the sky and a sweltering heat that nearly sent her back inside. The scent of roasted pig, sweat, salt, and a hint of rain filled her nose. To her right, the twang of a fiddle joined the cacophony of sounds that all together created the unique symphony of the city.

A few men tipped their hats at her as they passed. More than one’s gaze lingered with interest above a suggestive smile. Despite the heat, she drew her shawl tighter, not wanting to give them a hint that she was not a chaste lady.

Turning right, she wandered past shops and warehouses—a butcher, ship chandler, tailor, sugar warehouse, and blacksmith—back to the home she’d seen Charlie enter. The master gunner was no doubt back on the Summons and far away, but Emeline didn’t wish to return to Delphine’s yet. She preferred not to return to the brothel at all, but she had nowhere else to go as she waited for her father. And since she’d spent her last three pence on postage, she could not even barter passage on a ship heading to Jamaica.

More than once, she noticed a man in a suit of black camlet embellished with gold braid glancing her way. His posh attire suggested he was a gentleman and not a pirate, sailor, or one of the other miscreants who inhabited most port towns.

Regardless, she hurried along. Perhaps whoever befriended Charlie at the house she had entered would have a room to rent and would accept Emeline’s promise of a generous reward when her father arrived.

So, up the hill she went, then over to the door into which Charlie had disappeared. She raised her hand to knock, hesitating. What was she thinking? Perhaps the people on the other side of this door were no better than Delphine. Mayhap even worse. She turned to leave when the door flung open.

An elderly woman in a modest cotton gown with an apron tied about her waist and a mob cap on her head stared at Emeline quizzically. “May I ’elp you, Miss?”

The kindness in her voice and the twinkle in her eyes immediately set Emeline at ease.

“Forgive my intrusion, Madam. I…I…do you know Charlie…I mean a woman named Charlotte?” It only then occurred to Emeline she did not know Charlie’s surname.

The friendly gleam faded from the woman’s eyes, replaced by suspicion. “Who is asking?”

A child’s voice drifted from inside.

“I befriended her on the ship Summons . Her captain set me ashore here to wait for my father’s arrival and I—”

A young child, no older than three, with a shock of brown curly hair darted over to the woman, gripped her skirts, and stared up at Emeline. Innocence not yet tainted by the evil in the world shone from the lad’s wide eyes.

The woman swept him up in her arms. “I cannot help you, Miss. It’s just me and my son ’ere. We ’aven’t got any extra to give you.”

Her son? The woman was far too old to have a child so young. “Perhaps you have a room to rent? My father will more than compensate you. Charlie can vouch for me.”

The woman studied her a minute. A salty breeze fluttered the gray hair springing from her cap. “Charlotte is gone, and I ’ave no rooms, Miss. Now if you don’t mind.”

The lad reached a chubby hand toward Emeline and grinned. She grabbed it and shook it in greeting. “Nice to meet you, kind sir.”

“He likes you.” The woman smiled. “But I still cannot ’elp you.” Something caught her eye over Emeline’s shoulder and her posture stiffened. “Good day to you, Miss.” With that, the door slammed in Emeline’s face.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned to see the same posh gentleman in black attire strolling across the dirt street. Was he following her or was she being overly fearful?

Nay. He was most definitely following her.

To what purpose? She was no one of import. She had no money.

Clutching her shawl to her throat, she lowered her gaze and hurried down the street past him. One glance over her shoulder told her he had pivoted and was fast approaching from behind.

Lord ?

Blood racing, she turned down Bank Street, weaving around passersby and moving as fast as she could without drawing undue attention. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the man was still following her and…barreled into something large, solid, and warm.

“Oh my, forgive me, Sir!” She leapt back, only then noting the man wore the same black camlet suit as her pursuer, same lacy cuffs, same gold epaulets on his shoulders. His tricorn held a bright purple feather that waved in the salty breeze. An odd emblem pinned to his black cravat sparkled in the sunlight.

He said naught, only grinned as she attempted to move past him. His grip on her arm imprisoned her.

“I beg your pardon! Release me at once!” Pain etched up her arm.

The man who’d been following her appeared beside them.

“Good day to you, signorina .” The accent was strong yet unfamiliar. His clasp on her arm overpowering, resisting all her attempts to free herself.

“Allow me to be on my way, or I will scream for help.” She scanned the crowded street, wondering if anyone would come to her aid, for naught but pirates, sailors, slaves, and workers hastened about.

“Of course, signorina .” The man grinned and held out his hand. “As soon as you give me the Ring.”

Alarm buzzed through her. She dared to meet the man’s gaze. Pools of darkness bubbled in his gray eyes. Within them visions appeared, undulating in the thick black, apparitions of murder and chaos that turned her blood to ice. Her stomach soured. Her mind raced. And she knew one thing. This man must never possess the Ring of King Solomon.

“Ah, but where are my manners?” Removing his hat, he swept it before him in a flourish. “I am Signor Arturo Della Morte. You may address me as Father Morte if you wish.”

“You are no priest, Sir.” She spat back, wondering at her courage. Jesuits . These were the men Captain Keene said were after the Ring.

As if disgusted by the happenings below, dark clouds rolled in and gobbled up the sun. Wind whipped in from the sea, fluttering the feathers atop the two men’s hats.

Again the man called Della Morte held out his hand. “The Ring?”

Lord, help me !

Emeline shook her head. “I have no knowledge of any Ring, Signor Morte.” Her stomach clamped at the lie. “Now, if you please.” Quite an appropriate name for a man whose eyes held naught but death.

Those ghostly eyes scanned her from head to toe with such intensity she wondered whether he could see the Ring in her pocket. Then with a huff of impatience, he started on his way, gesturing to his friend to bring her along.

Panic curdled in her belly. She could not allow them to take her! Gathering her breath, she screamed with all her might. At that same moment, a deafening roar of thunder shook the skies, along with the ground beneath them, drowning out her appeal for help and stunning all the inhabitants of the small port town. Including the Jesuit villains.

Whispering a quick, “forgive me, Lord, ” Emeline kicked the man in the groin. Immediately releasing her, he bent over in agony. And before Signor Morte could react, she grabbed her skirts and tore down the street, her shawl flying off behind her.

A torrent of pounding rain unleashed from the dark skies above. Large drops pelted her, stinging her skin and creating a gray curtain that obscured everything in sight. Including her, for when she dared to glance behind her, the Jesuits were gone.

People dashed for cover. Carriages sank in the mud as the rap-tap of the rain on the cobblestones mimicked soldiers marching down the street.

Lightning flashed an eerie silver over the scene. Emeline blinked water from her lashes and turned down Bay Street toward Delphine’s. She had nowhere else to go and no one else to trust. She could only hope the Jesuits had no clue where she was staying.

Her rain-sodden gown dragged in the mud. Saturated curls dripped onto her shoulders, but thank the good Lord, no one followed her. Heaving a deep breath, she slowed, spotting Delphine’s up ahead.

Hefting her heavy skirts, she plodded toward the two-story home, trying to settle her nerves.

When strong hands gripped her shoulders and dragged her into the garden beside the house.