Page 26 of The Summons (Legend of the King’s Ring #1)

M

aston was not good at waiting. He’d never been good at waiting. Especially when great rewards were at stake, when he would finally acquire everything he deserved. Footsteps alerted him, and he slid into the shadows at the end of the hallway as that imbecile Finn ambled by, leaving a trail of putrid tobacco in his wake.

Shadows. This would be the last time Maston would be in the shadows. With Josephine Arnaud by his side and the Ring on his finger, they would rule the Spanish Main, not that fathead Blake. Non . Maston would be second to no man. If only his father could see him now. He’d be sorry he’d allowed his shrewish wife to cast Maston from their home, calling him names no child should hear.

Smiling, he adjusted his cravat, picturing his aged father crawling to bow before Maston, begging forgiveness and favors. Justice would be served when Maston dismissed him like so much refuse…

Just as he had done to him.

Voices rumbled down the hallway. Sam’s and Charlie’s.

“Nothing we can do for him,” Sam said.

“Nothing at all?” Charlie asked. “What is ailing him?”

“I have no idea. Never saw anything come upon a man so quick and fierce.”

The two walked past Maston.

“Will he die?” Charlie asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

“I don’t know.”

“Someone should stay with him.”

“I’m returning. I need to get opium and willow bark from the cabinet.”

Their voices muffled into whispers as they disappeared in the shadows.

Good. Blake was alone. At least for a few moments. Enough time for Maston to get in and steal the Ring. Before Jo had been escorted back to her ship, she’d instructed him to get the powerful artifact and meet her on the south side of the island just past the mangrove swamp.

“Then we shall be together forever, mon amour. ” She had kissed him so fervently, with such passion, he thought he’d left the tethers of this world and entered paradise. At that moment, he would have done anything for her.

Pushing from the wall, he crept toward Blake’s chamber, fingering the knife stuck in his belt.

“I hope that pious sprite managed to get him to remove the Ring,” Jo had said, offering him a wicked smile. “If not, cut off his finger.”

Which is exactly what Maston would do. And he’d enjoy it. He’d been under Blake’s dictatorial thumb for too long. Cutting off one of his fingers seemed more than adequate payment.

The door creaked open a little too loudly, but his task should not take long. The great Captain Blake Keene sprawled over his bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He neither stirred nor opened an eye when Maston approached. Stooping by his bed, he reached for his hand but nearly dropped it due to the heat radiating from the captain’s skin. No Ring sat upon his finger.

Odd. Maston groaned. Bon sang ! What to do now? It must be here somewhere. Blake would not keep it far. After groping through Blake’s pockets—to which his captain remained oblivious—Maston combed through the room, opening drawers, flipping through books, lifting up vases and trinkets. That’s when he found the lockbox. Of course.

Voices in the hall alerted him. Grabbing the box, he did the only thing he could do. He opened the door to the chamber beside Blake’s and dashed inside, closing it after him.

b

Emeline was the most foolhardy, na?ve, bird-witted woman ever to live. Over and over, she chastised herself as she followed Pedro through the jungle back to the great house. More than once, she nearly halted and dashed back to the boat. Yet something pressed her onward—empathy, concern? More likely a stupidity for which there was no cure.

Now, as she slipped inside Blake’s chamber, drawing a glance from Sam Goode, a shudder overcame her, along with a stench that spoke of more than mere illness.

“There’s naught you can do, Miss.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “Might as well go back to your bed.”

Drawing close, Emeline studied Blake. Pedro had said he was worse. The lad had not exaggerated. With pale, flaccid skin, dark circles beneath his eyes, blue lips, and shallow breathing, Blake looked as close to death as a condemned man at the noose. Despite her attempts to the contrary, her heart shrank within her.

A quick glance told her the Ring had not been returned to his finger. Another glance told her the lockbox containing it was gone. Odd, that. Why was Blake now at death’s door?

“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly.

The surgeon studied her, then closed the book he’d been reading. “Your choice.” He glanced at Blake. “But I don’t know if you’re up to it. Death can be an ugly thing.”

Death ?

Alarm fired every nerve. She steeled herself. “I have seen much death in my life, Sir.” ’Twas true enough. Though she had not seen anyone die whom she…she…she could not even bring herself to think the word.

“Very well. Come get me if there is any change. I’m three doors down on the left.” With that, the surgeon closed the door behind him.

Oh, Lord, what do I do ? Have I returned only to watch him die ?

Emeline drew up a chair and sat. The Ring was gone, but whatever illness it had caused remained. Or was it the Ring that had done this? She took one of Blake’s hands in hers and winced at the heat emanating from his skin.

Pray .

Aye. Of course. This was no ordinary illness. Instantly she knew that, could sense it deep inside. This was a spell, a hex, a wicked device cast upon Blake. And she also knew where it had come from. Josephine Arnaud. She had pushed aside the sense God had given her about the woman, not wanting to believe such an evil thing about anyone. Now there was no doubt.

Rising from her chair, she knelt beside the bed and laid both hands on Blake’s feverish body. He didn’t flinch…was barely breathing. She had to move fast. She’d seen her parents pray against spells on many occasions. She’d just never executed such power herself.

Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and spoke in her most commanding voice, which trembled at the moment. “In the name of Jesus, I command any spell, hex, or wicked curse cast upon Captain Blake Keene to be broken and leave his body at once.”

Her words seemed to drift upon the air and float out the open window, as powerless as the woman who spoke them. Or were they? She must have faith. She knew the power of her Lord’s name, had seen it in action many a time. Now she would wait…. and believe .

An hour passed and nothing changed.

Another hour and—was it her imagination, or did Blake’s breathing grow steadier?

His moan snapped her eyes open just moments after she’d given in to exhaustion and allowed them to close.

She knelt by his side and laid the back of her hand over his forehead. Still warm but not as hot as before.

More elation than she should feel soared through her.

“Emeline,” he mouthed.

“Aye, ’tis me.” She reached for a glass of water on the table, dipped a cloth into it, and dribbled it over his parted lips.

He licked it up, then attempted to speak. “Wha…? Wha...?”

“Shh, now, rest. You’ve been ill, but you are getting better.”

Thank You, Lord . She couldn’t help but smile as she sat back, watching him drift off to sleep again.

An hour later, the clock chimed four, and Emeline popped open her eyes to find Blake staring at her from his bed.

Blinking, she shook off her sleep, embarrassed. “I must have drifted off.”

“You are beautiful when you sleep.” His voice emerged muffled, yet stronger than before.

Ignoring how his compliment warmed her, she was more astonished to see that the color had returned to his face. “No doubt you are still delirious with fever.”

He smiled. “I’m feeling much better.” His brow wrinkled. “You healed me, didn’t you?”

“Me? Nay.” She shook her head. “God healed you. I prayed for you, ’tis all.” Moving close, she laid a hand on his forehead. Warm. “You still have a fever. Now rest. ’Twill be light soon.”

“A drink?” He struggled to sit, rubbed his head, and then dropped back to the mattress. With a mighty groan, he attempted it again. This time, she gripped his arm and helped him until he sat and swung his legs to the floor. His necklaces dangled over his bare chest, the skin of which still glistened with sweat.

Grabbing a glass, Emeline handed it to him, and he took it, his hand shaking.

“Easy, Blake.” She helped him drink, then took the glass. “You should lie down. You almost died last night.”

“Did I?” He leaned forward on his knees, drawing in deep breaths as if to stave off any further visits by the grim reaper.

Moments passed in silence with naught but the rush of wind outside the window and the distant call of a gull.

Emeline should leave. With Blake improving, she need not watch over him, and being alone with the man, being this close to him, was not good for her heart.

“I killed my father.”

He said the statement as if he were announcing the weather—emotionless, sober.

Taken aback, Emeline stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I sliced him through with my blade,” he added, not looking her way.

Clearly the man was still overcome with fever.

“Shh. You must be dreaming.” She nudged him back, but he resisted.

“Would that it was a dream.” He sighed, his gaze finally snapping to hers. “Does that frighten you, my little sugar bird?”

She studied him, wondering why he divulged such a secret. A pain she could not fathom burned in his eyes. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“He deserved it.” He lowered his gaze once again. “He beat my mother. Over and over. Year after year. Treated her as he did one of his slaves on his plantation on Barbados.”

Emeline nodded. ’Twas more common than one would think for men to treat their wives thus.

Raking back his hair, Blake dropped his head into his hands. Dark strands fell across his jaw that rolled and bunched tight with anger. “Many nights as a child, I’d hear his drunken shouts, hear her screams, and finally her endless sobbing.”

He rubbed a finger over the black cross around his neck. “As I told you, she was a religious woman, believed in the God you espouse. Lot a good it did her.”

“Then why do you wear it?”

“To remind me that God comes to no man’s rescue.” His tone was full of spite.

“He came to yours this night,” she dared to say.

Which only got her a disbelieving grunt. “I could not defend her. Could not help her at all. Not for many years. But then I grew tall and strong, and by age sixteen, I was as large as my father.”

Emeline swallowed down a lump of emotion, guessing the rest of the sad tale.

“As usual, he was deep in his cups and angry at the world. He began arguing with my mother about what”—he shook his head—“I don’t remember. All I remember is the rage I felt as he started slapping her without mercy.”

Emeline could not imagine such a thing. The men in her family, the fathers, brothers, and uncles, were kind, loving, and gentle with every woman.

Blake glanced at her, and the unfathomable agony and sorrow in that one look nearly tore her heart from her chest. “I dashed for him, pulled his blade from his scabbard and leveled it at him, demanding he leave her be.” Frowning, he shook his head. “After the shock wore off at seeing his son behave like a man, my father began taunting me, calling me names no father should call a son. He charged me, swiping at the sword as if it were naught but air.”

Blake rubbed his temples. His breathing grew heavy. Emeline placed a hand on his arm. The fever remained. “Please, Blake, lie down. You are still sick. There’s no need to tell me these things.”

“Aye, there is. I need to.” He swallowed hard.

She nodded, waiting, her heart growing far too heavy.

“The blade trembled in my hand. My mother screamed for me to drop it and leave him be. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. He continued barreling toward me. I swept the blade down in an effort to keep it from his grip….at the last minute he swerved to the left and the sword plunged into his belly.”

Emeline flung a hand to her mouth.

“He died in agony.” Blake’s words carried no sorrow, no pity, no remorse.

Emeline remained quiet, moisture filling her eyes.

“She cried for him.” Blake’s tone was incredulous as he snapped his gaze to her, shock and horror written on his tight expression. “Not merely cried, but she ran and fell on him, sobbing in horror.” He growled. “I saved her, and she cried for him.”

“He was her husband, Blake.”

“And I was her son,” he spat back, fury screaming from his face. “She threw me to the wind. Tossed me from the house that very night and told me never to return.”

Emeline could only stare at him. Only then did this man’s pain, this man’s need for control, for power, begin to make sense.

“No boy should have to suffer as you did,” she finally said. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I survived.” He grabbed his other necklace, the emblem of the lion, the sun, and the dove. “I more than survived. Found work down at the docks.”

“Where did you get that from?” Emeline gestured toward the amulet she’d always assumed had been stolen from some conquered merchant.

“An aged captain gave it to me. I was mopping the floors of a punch house in the wee hours of the morning, one of my many jobs. All the patrons had left except one old sailor who sat at a table in the corner staring at me. I thought he was drunk, but when I came close, he called me over.” Blake held the pendant up to the lantern light. “Said he saw something in me. Said I would do great things. Then he pulled this over his head and handed it to me.” Blake dropped the amulet, sending it banging against his chest.

“What else did he say?” Emeline asked.

He gave her a skeptical look. “Only that I was chosen.”

Precisely . She couldn’t help but smile. She’d heard countless tales from countless people of similar encounters with beings who pronounced a special destiny, a chosen destiny on their lives. Angels . The man who spoke to Blake must have been an angel. Dare she tell him that or would he think her mad? “What do you think he meant?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps chosen to rule the Caribbean.” A sardonic gleam crossed his green eyes, and she knew he must be feeling well again.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He smiled, and in his gaze she saw a burning, a longing, and an affection that both elated and terrified her. Lifting a hand, he gently caressed her cheek as was his way.

Clutching it, she lowered it back to his knee before the effect of his touch caused all reason to abandon her. “You are feeling better. I should leave.” She glanced out the window where the faintest glow of light announced a new day. “You need to rest.” Emeline rose.

“Stay.” From the look in his eyes, ’twas more a request than an order.

“No need. The demons are gone, are they not?” For she no longer felt the oppression in the room.

Instantly, his gaze dropped to his finger, then up to the chest of drawers. Pushing from his bed, he leapt to his feet, teetered for a second, then marched to the place where he’d left the lockbox, rage fisting his hands. “Where is my Ring?”