Page 21 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

B

lake’s frustration only grew through the afternoon, an afternoon of dealing with a series of trifling issues in the management of the estate and farmland. All of which made him long to be out to sea again. In due time. First, he must plot his next conquest, his next step toward enlarging his kingdom. In addition, he needed a plan to deal with that infernal Jesuit, Signor Arturo Della Morte, who was no doubt still in pursuit of the Ring.

After cleaning and putting on fresh attire, he passed by Emeline’s door, ignoring the yearning to see her. Instead, he made his way downstairs, heading for his gallery, where his estate manager had recently hung a new painting. Something about the masterpieces always soothed his nerves. With the addition of a little rum, of course.

No sooner did he enter the large gallery, the walls of which were covered with paintings, than he saw Emeline standing before his newest acquisition, gazing up at it with admiration.

Finally, there was something the lady appreciated. He took a moment to admire her as he headed her way. Though she was of a more petite stature than most women, she held herself tall and regal as if she were royalty. She wore the same azure gown that gathered at her small waist and spread out in a voluminous overskirt, revealing a silk petticoat underneath. A lacy fringe that matched the cuffs on her half sleeves lined her modest neckline. ’Twas the same gown she’d worn since he’d first seen her, but he still found it quite appealing. She’d pinned up her hair in a bundle of curls from which several had escaped and dangled about her neck.

Hearing his approach, she glanced his way. He longed for a smile but received a mere frown instead. In truth, his presence seemed to leech all the joy from her face.

But what did he expect? He slipped beside her and gestured toward the painting. “What are your impressions of Jan Vermeer? I quite admire this one, Girl with a Pearl Earring .”

“I adore his work.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “However, I am quite astonished to find any of it here.”

Ignoring her disapproving tone, he waved an arm around the gallery. “You’ll find more of his work, along with several pieces by Diego Velázquez. Most are reproductions, of course, but I do have one original. Would you like to see it?”

“How on earth would you have acquired an original?” Her tone was incredulous.

He raised one brow and grinned.

“Ah. How could I forget?” She looked away. “You are a pirate and a thief.” Her sharp rebuke cut him. “All of these are stolen, then?”

“Nay. Not all. I purchased one or two.” Why did he always feel like he needed to defend himself with this woman? He’d never been ashamed of his chosen profession before. Quite the opposite.

They moved to look at the next piece, one of his favorites—a naval battle by Willem van de Velde the Younger.

She gazed up at it in wonder.

“I see we not only share a love of music but of art, as well.” As he knew she would. None of his pirates or staff had a care for the fine arts, leaving him lonely in his admiration. “Is it not majestic?”

“It is truly stunning. I do admire your taste, Captain,” she said, then faced him, studying him in that invasive way of hers before adding, “You should not have scolded him so. You belittled him.”

At first Blake merely stared at her, confused, his mind searching for who the him was. Ah…so that was it. He snorted in disbelief. “Pedro is a cabin boy, not a prince.”

She shook her head, sending her curls dancing. “And you are so much better than he?”

“Aye, as you can see,” he said, waving his hand around the opulent room—the paintings, the sculptures, the Persian rugs gracing the floor, and the lanterns perched on walls between pieces of artwork, casting a royal glow over everything.

“So a man is measured by his possessions?” She cocked her head, frowning.

Blake gripped the lion amulet dangling around his neck. “And power.”

She studied him. Lantern light sparkled across her eyes—eyes that dove deep into his as if searching for treasure. “What do you intend to do with your power? Are you content with your island kingdom, or do you have other conquests in mind?”

“Many other conquests, Miss. Why would I need the Ring to do what I have already accomplished without it?”

“Then you are to rule the world?” A sparkle of playfulness lit her eyes.

“Perhaps not the entire thing.” He joked but then grew serious. “But ’twould be nice to rule the Spanish Main, send the power-hungry European powers back home, and take the land for myself. As you see, I am quite benevolent to the natives.”

She moved to the next painting. “What of the African slaves already here?”

“I would set them free to work for me.”

At first she nodded, no doubt pleased with his charity, but then she released a heavy sigh. “Such ambitious plans, Captain.”

They moved on to view two paintings by Diego Velázquez. Silence spanned between them as she examined the portrait of a young Spanish princess, Infanta Margarit Teresa in a Blue Dress .

“I will admit you surprise me, Captain. I have never met a pirate with the taste of a nobleman.”

“A compliment?” Blake laid a hand on his heart. “I find myself quite taken aback.”

“Even more surprising”—she shot an angry look his way—“is that you expect your prisoner to regale you with said compliments.”

He smiled, longing to touch one of her curls. “Honestly, I do not think of you as such.”

She frowned. “Then what am I doing here?”

He fingered the Ring, and against every desire within him, answered her, “Teach me to control the demons from this Ring, and I will set you free.”

b

Emeline had already informed him that demons only fled in the presence of God’s Holy Spirit. “As I have said, ’tis not me, Captain, who chases evil away. You speak of power. The ultimate power comes from the Almighty and presides in those who trust His Son. That is where real power in this life lies. Not in ruling your own kingdom.”

“Hmm.” He glanced back at the painting, seemingly unfazed by her homily. “’Tis not been my experience.”

“It could be, should you wish it.”

He lifted his hand toward her as if he intended to caress her cheek yet again, then dropped it. “Are you trying to convert me, my little missionary?”

“Nay, I’m trying to save you.”

One brow arched. “It appears, however, ’tis you who needs saving at the moment.”

She could not deny it. Though she could not resist adding, “Appearances can be deceiving, Captain.”

At this he smiled. The banter between them, while tense at times, she found oddly enjoyable. The man was not dull by any means. He had an intelligence about him, a sharp mind and quick wit.

When he was sober, that was, and not angry.

He walked ahead of her to another painting of a tall ship amidst a raging storm at sea, and she took the opportunity to study him. He looked every bit the pirate captain with his tight breeches stuffed in Hessian boots, his embroidered leather jerkin covering a white cambric shirt, open at the collar where his necklaces hung. The ever-present cutlass at his hip swung as he walked. Today, he had tied his dark wavy hair behind him, while matching stubble lined his jaw and perched upon his lips in a thin mustache. But ’twas those eyes that mesmerized her—that had mesmerized her from the first time he looked at her on Nassau—almond-shaped and much like the stormy sea in the painting he gazed upon, turbulent and restless.

He caught her staring at him and smiled, not the smile of a pirate, nor a kidnapper, but the smile of a courtier, a gentleman toward his lady. Their eyes locked for several moments, and she wondered if he could indeed become the hero she so desired.

Later at dinner, as she sat around the table with his crew and staff and watched him drown himself in rum and curse as well as any of them, she withdrew her former question. What was wrong with her to even consider such a thing? For some reason unbeknownst to her, he had her emotions in a spin. Surely she was the silliest of all women to ever think anything honorable existed in such a man who thought naught of stealing from others and kidnapping women.

A truth that further came crashing down upon her when he burst into her bedchamber hours later, deep in his cups, and demanding she play the violin for him. He wore naught but his breeches, and despite the moonlight drifting in through the window landing on his powerful chest, reminding her he could crush her with one blow, she denied him.

“Find someone else to play. I’m tired.”

He drew close, halting just inches from where she sat on her bed. The smell of rum and spice and Blake surrounded her. His heavy breaths filled the air. He was a panther on the prowl, a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. She was a fool to deny him.

“You will play for me, Miss, or I fear I will have to remain in your chamber with you all night.”

“To what purpose?” Her voice quivered.

“Let us not find out.” His tone was not threatening, but rather one of desperation.

Still, the threat remained. The one that reminded her she was naught but a prisoner in this crazed pirate’s dream of power.

So, she played for him as he sat in a chair, his head leaning against the cushioned back. A single lantern revealed a face that at first looked tortured but now relaxed into an almost peaceful repose.

Perhaps the Ring did summon demons, as the myth implied. Or rather it called forth demons already at work within this man. Regardless, she could hardly spend the rest of her nights in his bedchamber. Either he must get rid of the vile Ring or give his life to God. Unfortunately, she saw neither as a possibility.

Which meant she must make her escape as soon as possible.

Yet as she stared at Blake, his muscular chest rising and falling beneath the deep breaths of sleep, a melancholy overcame her. If he remained on this path, he would end up dead, not only in spirit but in body. She knew it deep inside. Could see it in his future—a future full of crushed hopes and sorrow, ending in hellfire.

Oh, Lord , she prayed silently while she began a softer tune on the violin. You said to pray for Your enemies, to bless those who curse You. Hence, I’m praying for Blake. He needs You. He needs to know You. Please help him. Please tell me how I can help him. Why she cared, she could not say, but something about the man stirred her soul.

Finishing the song, she removed the violin from beneath her chin and laid it in her lap. Wind whished across windowpanes where ribbons of moonlight streamed into the room. Distant laughter echoed from somewhere in the house. Intending to return to her chamber, Emeline gently laid the violin in its case and rose.

“Don’t stop.” Blake’s deep voice rumbled as he lifted his head from the back of the chair.

“I thought you were asleep.” Emeline took a step toward him, clasping her hands.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hair hanging around his face, but said naught.

“I’m weary, Blake. May I return to my bed?”

Rising, he moved toward her, his shadow so large, his movements so predatory, that she swallowed down a lump of fear. Yet she remained in place.

He halted mere inches from her. Lantern light swept over his face, revealing an exhaustion she could not fathom and a humility she never expected. Raising his hand, he eased the back of his fingers over her cheek, so softly, so gently…she closed her eyes beneath the sensation.

The heat from his body flooded her, his scent, his touch. Heart pounding, she opened her eyes and took a step back, angry at her response to him.

“Good night, Captain,” she blurted nervously and turned toward the door.

His firm grasp on her arm swung her about. “You are right about Pedro. I should not have been so harsh. But you must understand. I have a ship to run, men to command. I cannot tolerate laziness nor disrespect.”

“I do understand. More than you know.”

“Aye. You hail from a mighty stock of ship captains.” He breathed out a deep sigh, released her, and dragged a hand through his hair. “But the boy. He has promise for one so young.”

“You might tell him that now and then, Captain.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

She could leave. But something kept her in place. “I am shocked you would listen to a silly woman such as myself.”

He snapped his gaze her way. “I listen to many things you say.” He moved toward her again, and before she could stop him, he took a strand of her loose hair tumbling over her nightdress and fingered it as if it were made of spun gold.

“May I leave, Captain?”

He stared at her, his eyes inches from hers. “On one condition.”

She waited, her nerves tight, her mind reeling, ready to defend her chastity if need be.

Before she could gather her resolve, his lips lowered to hers. Soft, sensual, moist, their touch sent powerful waves down to her toes, sensations she’d never felt before. She should kick him! She should slap him. She should run away as fast as she could.

Instead, she stood there, allowing his kiss. Nay. Enjoying it, responding to it! The shame!

He deepened it, exploring, loving. He tasted of rum and spice. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her close, pressing her curves against his hard chest. His strength surrounded her, enfolding her in a cocoon of protection. Her legs turned to mush. He held her tighter. Warmth spiraled through her. Reason! Reason! Sanity! She begged for release from this madness!

He withdrew. “Emeline.” His voice was sultry, deep, breathless.

Horror flooded her. Shame soon followed. Pushing from him, she drew a hand to her mouth. Was he to take more liberties now that she had allowed his kiss? What had she been thinking?

His eyes, brimming with desire, searched hers. He took a step back. “You may leave.”

Spinning on her heels, Emeline fled from the room.