Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (8 page)

Hands on his hips, he looked about the cabin. A fine work of carpentry it was, giving credit to the captain's rank. Frink, he was surprised to find, had outfitted the
Striker
with the best, lining the walls in rich mahogany. Bookcases filled one portion of the west cabin wall. A section, cordoned with glass cabinets, held liquor, showcasing one of Frink's many vices.

Stepping over to the cabinet, Percy touched the fine-etched glass. The artistry was quite good. How had Frink financed the skilled laborers?

Whoever had been backing the man had to have been someone of great importance. For no other could have sponsored such opulence. The liquor in the cabinet stared back at him with invitation. Sating his thirst proved quite appealing since he couldn't act upon his hunger for the lady herself. Percy opened the cut-glass doors and stared at two bottles of port, a bottle of brandy and a jug of rum, each tethered against the wall to keep them from breaking in choppy seas. An additional pair of low bottomed glasses stowed nearby proved Frink unbelievably civilized.

The bed shifted. Percy glanced over his shoulder, half-afraid he'd have to deal with a startled woman before getting the stiff drink he needed to warm his bones. What he saw made him even more adamant to get that drink. Constance lay on her side, the coverlet gathered over her breasts. The sight of her dipping waist and mounding hips stirred his soul. He licked his dry lips, closed the liquor door, and frowned. Liquor would not ease what ailed him.

He strode over to the built-in bookcase and stopped to scan literary works neatly stacked inside.
Twelfth Night
by William Shakespeare, Edmund Burke's
Reflections on the Revolution in France
, and
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
by William Blake lined the shelves. Percy frowned. Who would've guessed Frink had any sort of taste in literature? A deep-rooted suspicion began to take root within him. He had not been toying with a simpleton, but a man of complexities.

Percy settled his gaze upon the large mahogany desk jutting out of the inlaid floor like coral on a reef. Built with a tall wooden lip around the edges to prevent content spillage and complete with garish designs carved upon the legs, the monstrosity owned the room. The surface, unbeknownst to him until now, displayed rolled parchments and maps, which had been tossed across the top of the desk as if they'd been discarded in a hurry. Percy eyed the papers curiously, scanning the myriad paperwork until he spied a map weighted down by a quadrant and compass. Leaning closer, he examined the nautical measurements, and then used them to calculate the distance off of England's coastline, a directional chart flow that led to an unnamed port off the coast. The location had been circled, however, and dated three months prior. Intrigued, he traced back over the route with his fingertip. His brow arched when his fingertip came to rest at Talland Bay just beyond the tiny town of Polperro along the Cornish coast.

His hopes immediately lifted as he recollected that he'd returned home briefly to tend to his ailing father during that time, making him suspiciously absent at the recorded meeting place. Determined to find out what had transpired there, Percy flipped through the hastily assorted piles, eager for another clue. Two names appeared — Zephaniah Job and Josiah Cane — beside which the word
fox
had been scrawled.

Josiah Cane.
Fox.
Percy lifted his hand and nearly slammed it hard upon the desk, but stopped mid-air as a movement out of the corner of his eye reminded him he was not alone. He held his breath and waited to see if his actions had awakened the lady. When she failed to move, he redirected his attention to the maps.

Simon had once informed him that Zephaniah Job commanded a smuggling ring near Polperro. But who was Josiah Cane? Who was this fox? Frink had never mentioned anyone other than someone known as Whistler, the one who'd keyed them in to the
Octavia
's whereabouts. Until now, Simon hadn't believed Whistler existed. Recently intercepted messages proved Whistler did, however, mastermind the
Octavia
's defeat. But who was Whistler? And how was he going to get a message to Simon to prove the informant's existence?

Sifting through papers at his fingertips, enthralled by information he'd been fortunate to gather, Percy collapsed into the desk chair. Mind racing, his heart thrummed with hope. For the first time since the
Octavia
sank to the bottom of the Channel, barriers to Frink's network of power were beginning to thin. He leaned back and closed his eyes, satisfied that he still had a chance to avenge his sister.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Captain?”

His eyes darted from the door to the bed to see if the disturbance had roused Lady Constance. He simply wasn't ready to deal with the sobbing woman. Not when a new plan was beginning to develop in his mind. He didn't need distractions right now and that was what she was proving to be, a disruption to his life and ambitions. He eyed her suspiciously and eased himself out of his chair. Then he strode soundlessly to the cabin door and quietly stepped outside.

“Shh,” he rebuked. “The lady's sleeping.”

Ollie peered over Percy's shoulder, wincing with the effort and stopped short when the only thing visible was her torn shift lying on the floor. “Not asleep, I wager, but ridden to exhaustion,” he joked.

“Aye.” Percy winked. With a lop-sided smile, he let the man think what he would. It only served to enhance the lady's protection. “Is anything amiss?”

“A … miss?” Ollie stuttered.

“Other than wanting to catch sight of our prize, why are you here?” he asked.

He didn't want to dwell on Lady Constance — as if he could forget her. He wanted to focus on how he was going to get Josiah Cane to lead him to Celeste's killer. There would be time later to figure out what to do with the tempting wench in his bed and deal with the annoying trouble she'd caused him. But first, he had to get to London. Until he docked, he had innumerable problems to contend with, not the least of which were keeping Constance safe, Collins and Guffald alive, and making sure the men on the ship didn't mutiny again. After he arrived, there was the
Octavia
's sinking to report, prisoners to relinquish, and Constance to see safely delivered home to her uncle. Simon was not a man he wanted to engage when angry. The man was a formidable legend. The sooner Constance was off his hands, the better.

Perhaps news he'd been able to save his old friend, Guffald, would soothe Simon's ruffled feathers where Constance was concerned, he thought.

“Cap'n?”

“Aye?” he answered, stirred at last from his musings.

“Your pardon, sir, but it seems you are preoccupied.” He grinned. “Not that I blame you.”

“You're quite fixated on that girl, aren't you, Ollie?”

“Aye, Cap'n.” Clearing his throat, Ollie groaned, “If you get tired of her, the crew and me have drawn straws.”

Percy grinned. “Save it, you old sea dog. The girl is returning to her uncle. I don't think Simon would think kindly of her returning sorely used.”

“Right.” He frowned. “How about slightly used?”

A smile widened Percy's lips. If anyone were going to slightly use the girl, it would be him. “What brings you below deck, Ollie? I counted on you being at the helm.”

“Frink's crew, what's left of 'em, have agreed to terms. The others, those what fought and refused to sail, are floating like bloated whales in one of the
Striker
's boats, headed to France.” Ollie's wicked cackle raised the hair on his arms. They weren't supposed to set any of the men free and France and England were at war.

“Why didn't you put them in the hold? Simon wanted them — alive.”

“There wasn't room, Cap'n, not with what Frink had pulled from the
Octavia
and stored in the hold. With Collins, Guffald and his men, our own men and now some of Frink's men aboard, we would've been playing with fire if we thought we could control the lot of them at once, especially those loyal to Frink.”

Percy weighed the truth in Ollie's explanation and nodded. His mate was right. According to his calculations, they were eight days from London. The last thing he needed was another mutiny on his hands.

“Then that will have to do,” he said.

“One other thing, sir.”

“Yes?” he asked.

“We, ah, well, sir, we pulled Frink from the drink. He's aboard, sir.”

“Frink?” Percy swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. He hadn't killed the man? “How?”

Ollie's hands began to move as he talked. “Seems that after you fought the captain, he recovered long enough to swim away from the ship before it sank. Our men pulled him aboard, but didn't recognize him at first. They threw him in with the lot of 'em in the hold. Didn't want to bother you earlier in the night. Thought you might like some privacy with the girl. But this morning the captain made a ruckus. I need to know what you want us to do with 'em, sir.”

The ramifications were horrendous. With Frink on board, his captaincy, his control over the other men was at risk. With the captain in the hold, Constance's life was in jeopardy. But with Frink alive, he still had the potential connections he needed to find the man responsible for Celeste's death.

“Leave him be for now, Ollie. He can't do any harm to us in chains.” At least that was his most prevalent hope.

“Will do, Cap'n.”

“What about Guffald?” he asked.

“That conniving cuss has been through worse. He got a good knot to his noggin', a few cuts and bruises, nothing serious. The sawbones has patched him up.”

“Where is he?”

Ollie smiled. “He's with Collins's men.”

“Understood.” Percy frowned. Something didn't add up. But what, he couldn't be sure. He'd fought with Guffald in the worst of conditions. The man was a member of Nelson's Tea. However, Henry had not been privileged to the information that Percy had while working undercover for nearly a year. Now was not the time to plunge Henry into his methodical scheme. Not with a personal vendetta on the line.

“What about Collins?” he asked, his hand on the knob to his cabin door. “Was the sawbones able to patch him up?”

Ollie's eyes fixated on the boards beneath their feet. “Succumbed to his wounds, the captain did. Not a good sight, sir.”

What more could be said? He'd done his best to save Collins. They'd each made a pact in the event of certain death at the hands of the enemy.

He lifted his gaze to meet Ollie's misted eyes. “Understood,” he said. Captain Collins had been one of the best nautical minds under the British flag. He would never forget the man's painful expression, his concern not for his own wounds but for Lady Constance, the woman lying in his bed. “Tell the men he's to receive a proper burial at sea.”

Ollie nodded. “The word has already been given, sir.”

“You're a good man, Ollie,” he admitted, slapping the man on the shoulder. “What would I do without you?”

Pride lit up Ollie's eyes. “You'd be at the bottom of the locker, I wager.”

Percy smirked. “At least I would have had a delectable wench to keep me company.”

“That is true,” Ollie said. His second in command breathed deeply, furrowed his brows and then cleared his throat. “Been meaning to ask you, Cap'n. What do you plan to do with Danbury's niece?”

“Good question, Ollie.” He tapped his chin. “We'll return her to her uncle as quickly as possible. Until then, I'll keep her in my cabin,
away
from the men. No one is allowed near her, understood?”

“Aye. But who will keep her away from you, sir?” Ollie suggested.

Halfway through the door, Percy glanced back over his shoulder. “God only knows, Ollie. God only knows.”

Ollie grinned. “If you get tired of trying — ”

“Simon's niece is off limits,” he reminded him.

“Aye, sir!” Ollie saluted.

“Sound quarters. We're headed home. I'll be up momentarily.”

“Aye, sir.” Twisting his toe on the deck boards, Ollie added, “Would you be wanting the galley to heat some victuals?”

Percy nodded, imagining Constance would be quite hungry when she awoke. He rubbed the back of his neck against the strain she'd already imposed upon him. Collins had been known for extravagant meals aboard his vessels. Surely a good meal would assuage her spirits. But what of his own?

“Aye,” he told Ollie. “I've built up quite a hunger.” A hunger for revenge, a taste for blood staunched only by the death of those responsible for ending his sister's life.

Ollie shuffled away. Percy watched his man disappear down the companionway toward the galley. Josiah Cane's name and unanswered questions inundated his mind. He was starving, but not for food. He was eager to find out who Josiah Cane was. Desperate to know what kind of connections the man had with Frink. Hungry for revenge and the satisfaction achieving his goal would bring.

“Hello?” a woman's voice heralded, tearing him away from the trials he calculated were near at hand. Her voice sent a rush of desire straight to his loins. Sultry, inviting, it enticed him to close the door to the outside world and disappear inside her flesh. He closed the door and focused on the nude form sitting up in his bed, hair in complete dishevel, completely unaware of her sensual allure.

All at once, he was seized by a different kind of hunger.

Constance's muscles rebelled. She stretched her limbs and stared at another cabin ceiling. The dark wooden paneling, polished to a burnished sheen, revealed little as to her whereabouts. Confused, she sat up on her elbows, her eyes instantly alert as they focused upon the opulently carved window encompassing the lighted end of the room. Perplexed and frightened, she gazed about. Nothing looked familiar. Not the rich red brocade draperies cascading down the corners of her bunk. Not the large window, where light radiated across the floor, or the accessories — rope, lanterns — lining the polished walls. She'd never been inside a captain's cabin before but knew, without doubt, she had to be in one now. But whose? Captain Collins's or Captain Frink's? She had little to no memory to indicate which.