Fair Winds to Jamaica

By Barbara Dan

A tale of swashbuckling romantic adventure on the high seas! In Part I, Fair Winds to Jamaica, an unwilling bride escapes the marriage mill in Boston, only to encounter Pirates in the Caribbean, a slave uprising in Jamaica. She and rougish "Fair Winds" captain Grant Watermann fight a passionate attraction neither can deny.

In the sequel Part II, Fair Winds to Muscovy, after a dangerous journey through the storm-tossed Atlantic to England during the reign of William of Orange, Roslyn Morgan and travels on to Poland and Russia during the uprising of the Streltsy Guard against Czar Peter the Great. As Rosalyn Morgan and the Fair Winds’ rogue captain, Grant Watermann, flee Russia during the final harrowing events of Part II, they are captured by Swedish troops near the Russian border. Trapped in a burning barn and facing certain death, Rosalyn finally breaks down and admits her love for Grant—after nearly two years of fighting a fatal attraction that has plagued and tormented them both! Has her confession come too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Dan
• Release date: Feb 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452449050

Barbara Dan

First published in her teens, Barbara Dan admits to enjoying a variation of life experiences, including working as an actress, model, night club comedienne, comedy writer, puppeteer, theatrical producer in Hollywood, screenwriter, publicist, real estate saleswoman, hands-on-builder of houses, escrow officer, co-teacher of couples communication workshops with her late husband, family counselor John Dan. Other hats she has worn include publisher, editor, adjunct college professor, and—by far her biggest joy and challenge—being mother to four grown children and grandma to five very lively grandchildren and recently to three great-grandchildren. Hobbies: gardening, cooking, oil painting, quilting. She is a voracious reader on many subjects, loves to haunt old graveyards and historic sites. Many of her characters are inspired by family genaeology charts! But the most outrageous ones come straight from her overactive imagination. Her historical western, SILENT ANGEL, won the Colorado Romance Writers' award for Best Historical Novel (1992). She is a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. Many of her books are available in paperback as well as eBook. Even though she has degrees in Theatre Arts and Advanced Accounting, and an M.A. in Humanities (emphasis: literature) from Cal State University, she insists that real life is far better preparation for writing than academia! (A good sense of humor also helps.)

Book preview

Chapter One

Boston ~ Late October 1697

The wild piercing shriek of a red-tailed hawk outside her window roused Rosalyn Morgan from an exhausted stupor to a confused state of alarm. Her heart racing, she sat up in bed, fighting a wave of panic. In seconds, the life-and-death struggle taking place outside her rain-streaked windowpane propelled her out of one nightmare and into another.

The helpless fluttering wings of pigeons nesting under the rafters could not dispel the hawk’s savage strike. Swooping in for the kill, the hawk sank its talons into its chosen victim and lifted off, gliding through the trees on outspread wings. Feathers drifting in the air bore witness to harsh realities in the world around her, as did the distressed cries of gentle survivors, whose day had not yet come.

Shivering, Rosalyn slipped out of bed and darted to the window. Avoiding the low, slanted dormer ceiling, she checked the deserted, rain-soaked street below. Fearfully she scanned the stark, black silhouettes of trees stripped bare of fall leaves. Engulfed in fog, her father’s clapboard house with its dark green shutters and shake siding yellowed by sea air had held her prisoner for three long weeks. For days now, she had lain awake in the dark, listening to her father’s untroubled snores across the hall, while she had dwelt in a land of night terrors.

Choking back a sob, she found it hard to recall ever having felt happy and secure in this house, for now all she wished for, most fervently, was to be free —forever!—from the tyranny of her father’s watchful eye and controlling hand. Alas, she had explored every possible avenue of escape, only to come up empty. All her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. A sickening chill swept over her, as cold as any of Death’s angels—aye, and with the same dampening effect upon her spirit.

Rosalyn shrank back from the window, both fists pressed against her trembling mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled over—tears of despair that sprang from a deep sense of betrayal, to say nothing of stark terror. Her father cared not one whit that her young heart was breaking. In a few scant hours she was to become the third wife of a paunchy old sea captain who had made his fortune raiding the Caribbean. A total stranger. A pirate! And what was even worse, an old pirate! What her father proposed was unspeakably lewd and disgusting!

Oh, what dreams she'd cherished as a young girl growing up in this house, she lamented, frowning at the beautiful bridal clothes draped over a chair the night before by Mrs. Cookson, her father’s housekeeper. Crossing the room, she picked up the open-fronted robe of rich apricot silk draped over a satin underskirt. A luscious gown it was, borrowed from one of her friends for this hurry-up wedding of her father’s choosing! The robe featured a square neck, edged with lace, for modesty’s sake, with puffed sleeves to the elbow, and beneath all that, lace inserts to cover the lower arms to the wrist. Painstakingly pressed, the virgin-white satin underskirt was designed to be worn over a stiff corset and two ruffled petticoats. Some might even consider it the perfect dress to show off a properly adoring bride—something she vowed never to be!

For alas! Her dreams were dashed now, strewn to the far winds like last week’s ashes, all for a pirate’s fat purse! And for all the heartache that now lay before her, not even old Granny Perkins’ rucksack of home remedies carried a cure. This was not how she had always imagined her wedding day. As Rosalyn fingered the lustrous bridal satin, a silent tear fell, marring the gown’s perfection.

Mistress Rosalyn?

Dashing away the tears from her cheek, Rosalyn turned to discover Mercy Wallins, her father’s recently acquired indentured servant, standing in the open doorway.

Mercy’s reddened eyes revealed that she, too, had been weeping. Although new to the Morgan household, she had shown great kindness to Rosalyn these past few weeks. Her manners and natural dignity bespoke of better times, before entering service to pay her family’s debts in England.

I cannot bear it, Rosalyn cried. This should have been the happiest day of my life!

In the next moment she felt Mercy’s arms slip around her, and they sat on the bed, next to the bridal gown, both shedding bitter tears. Hush now. You mustn’t carry on so, Mercy crooned, touching a soft lace handkerchief to Rosalyn’s moist cheek and chucking her under the chin. Look! I brought you something to cheer you up.

You did? Rosalyn’s body shook with violent sobs, as she clung to the English lass who had befriended her in her darkest hour. What could possibly save her now? Tears clung to her thick dark lashes, as she gazed forlornly at Mercy for answers.

Rising, the young woman went to the highboy dresser and retrieved a tray containing a bottle and two glasses. She smiled conspiratorially at Rosalyn. I pinched a bottle of elderberry wine from the cellar. I thought it might just be what you’d be needing about now.

Although Rosalyn seldom partook of spirits, other than mulled cider and weak ale, she saw at once that Mercy’s suggestion had merit. Why, Mercy, you dear, sweet, clever friend! she exclaimed, coming up off the feather mattress with alacrity.

Shall we? Mercy invited, and without further ado she poured two stiff ones.

Rosalyn held the glass up to the light and contemplated its medicinal properties. Why not? she thought defiantly. Her father would be furious, but she no longer cared. The pain she felt was more than she could endure unaided. And if the cure upset her father, so much the better!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hellfire, sir! In two quick strides, Grant Watermann covered the distance between the door to his father’s room at the Rams Head Tavern on Fleet Street and the untidy bed.

Through the swirling dust motes, he stared hard, trying to overlook this latest debauch. His Old Man sat on the edge of his lumpy tick mattress, looking much the worse for wear, as he scratched his grizzled chin. Aye, the old captain must have had a rough night, no doubt drinking with his cronies down at the pub on Fulton. His shirt, none too clean, hung sloppily from his slumping shoulders, and his soured breath and body stench betrayed the need of a bath. Grant was used to his father kicking over the traces betimes, but bringing him up to scratch wasn’t something Grant looked forward to, coming on the heels of a long and difficult journey.

How now, Father! I come to share my good news, and what do I find? This! Grant waved a hand in eloquent disgust at his disheveled father and the empty bottle of rum entangled in the rumpled sheets.

Nathaniel Watermann chuckled, rubbing his slightly bloated belly. Just celebratin’, lad. I’m gettin' married again.

Married? Grant bristled with disapproval. Are you daft? What have you gone and done this time? Plighted your troth to some tavern wench? By heaven, sir, this is too much!

Now, now, my boy. Don’t shout. I ain’t hard of hearin’. Nathaniel winced and wrung his ear with his stout pinky. The slightest jarring noise or movement set off a stabbing pain in his head, and his son’s stentorian roar was, to put it mildly, indelicately abrasive this morning.

The younger Watermann stood on legs braced slightly apart and fists planted on lean hips. He threw back his head and uttered an exasperated groan.

These past four years he'd served as first mate on the Fair Winds, just to keep an eye on his father. Aye, and maybe because it was profitable, too. But he’d done it mostly for his father’s sake. His Old Man was apparently incurable. His lust for danger and adventure had led them in and out of nearly every hellhole in the Caribbean—until he saw three of his seafaring buddies swing from the gibbet.

When his father announced he was giving up buccaneering, Grant had heaved a great sigh of relief. ’Twas a sign of changing times when a sixty-two year old pirate, after carrying on an insatiable flirtation with death for nigh on forty years, could admit that piracy had lost some of its allure. Of course, the Crown was growing less tolerant of terrorism on the high seas. That may have had something to do with it, too.

Last May, when they weighed anchor, taking a northerly course from Nassau on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, Grant had cause to believe the Old Man had finally come to his senses. 'Twas time to leave behind all the barroom brawls, roisterous living, and sea battles. Besides, the man was set for life, with enough gold Spanish doubloons to last him three lifetimes.

Now he eyed his father, refusing to believe this latest declaration was serious.

Please tell me you’re jesting, sir.

Heaving his bulk out of bed, the grizzled old pirate ambled over to his sea chest and picked out a brand spanking new pair of breeches and a clean shirt. ’Twould ne'er do to jest about so sacred an institution as marriage. ’Tis glad I am that you made it home in time, lad. You can be me best man.

I’ll do no such thing. Grant watched his father weave and wobble unsteadily, as he donned the fawn-colored breeches. Here, sir. Lean on me.

Nathaniel Watermann grinned up at his slightly taller son. Thanks, lad. He patted his son’s steadying arm absently and made it on his own two legs over to the washstand.

The cracked mirror captured the image of a face with three days’ growth of beard and the remnants of a once handsome but now craggy, though still forceful visage. Nathaniel scratched his whiskers, wondering briefly whether to shave. Although still not thinking too clearly, he recalled Abner Morgan’s daughter and decided such a dainty young poppet was worth a little pampering. What the hell? he growled, forgetting he wasn’t alone. I’m turnin’ over a new leaf, so to speak. Might as well look the part.

A new leaf? You, sir? Grant’s cynical laugh brought the Old Man around again.

Nathaniel flourished his boar shaving brush under his son’s nose. Jus’ because I’ve turned respectable doesn’t mean I ain’t entitled to a little fun. Besides, it’s been years since I last took a wife.

You may be tacking around in safer waters, sir, but you’re still flirting with danger, Grant warned, arching an eyebrow.

Nathaniel cackled. You might try sailin’ into marital waters yourself, son. Think of the practical advantages.

How’s that, Father? Grant cast a skeptical glance at his Old Man.

I was just thinkin’. If you married the daughter of a blacksmith or a cooper, we’d be all set for our new venture. Nathaniel swept an appraising eye over his handsome son.

In many ways, Grant reminded Nathaniel of himself at the same age—twenty-six, an inch or two shy of six feet. Strong, lean and sinewy, his powerful shoulders, large biceps and broad chest had been shaped by hard work, discipline, and an unquenchable spirit for adventure and new challenges. Lean in the gut and narrow hipped, he was well muscled fore and aft, his legs as powerfully developed as his upper torso.

A conservative dresser, Grant Watermann walked with the lithe grace of a friendly predator, commanding the respect of his fellow men, and setting feminine hearts aflutter by the sheer dynamism of an outgoing personality and energy. His strong clean features, deeply tanned from years sailing under tropical skies, were framed by slightly wavy black hair that curled against the edge of his collar. His high cheekbones, straight nose, and sensuous mouth generally reflected his good humor, and were set off by his most prominent feature, a pair of tawny hazel eyes that could change color with lightning speed to reflect his current mood. Aye, he was sharper in his business dealings than his old father, but despite a decidedly pragmatic bent, he showed no inclination to share his father’s fate at the altar.

Sorry, but mixing business and pleasure is not for me. Grant said, flatly dismissing marriage with a disapproving frown.

Well, ‘tis a good thing one of us ain’t asleep at the tiller. Nathaniel testily picked up his straight razor and began honing it to a rapier’s sharpness on his leather strop.

Seeing past his father’s bull-headedness, Grant sensed his discomfort with the idea of getting old. His expression softened. Let me shave you, sir. Your hand’s none too steady this morning. Brooking no argument, he pushed his father into a chair. He poured water in the basin, lathered up the Old Man’s whiskers with the brush, and gave him a clean shave, all the while lecturing him.

Now let me see, he speculated, crossing in front of his father to trim a thick side whisker. While I was busy contacting businessmen to handle trade goods between here and the Carolinas, you got bored. Am I right so far, sir?

Well, no, not precisely. Nathaniel’s weathered brow crinkled, as he focused on winning his son over to his way of thinking. The lass is a real beauty, Grant. He sighed. I couldn’t help meself. When I saw how well connected she—

Grant rolled his eyes and took a swipe at his father’s ragged haircut with the straight razor. Good for you, sir. I’m gone little more than four weeks, and you can’t stay out of trouble.

Hell, I ain’t dead yet, growled the Old Man, pushing his son’s hand away. Not by a long shot. Anyway, I’m doing the right thing, marrying the wench.

Exasperated, Grant threw a towel at his father. I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Why now? It isn’t as if you can’t find a woman whenever you need one.

Hold your tongue, young duffer.

The Captain would much rather have slept till noon than listen to a lecture from this young whelp, but Grant was in no mood to let him off so easily. What’s really going on? Grant wanted to know. Listen, Father, you’ve managed to be fairly content the past few years since Molly died. Why this sudden overwhelming urge to tie the knot?

The old Captain gazed up into his son’s indignant hazel eyes and shrugged. Help me tie this cravat, son. The slightly faded neckcloth he handed over had lain at the bottom of his sea chest so long that it was out of fashion. Maybe I’m just tired of lookin’ for my fun with a different wench each time—I don’t know. He grinned wickedly at his scowling son.

You knocked her up, right? Grant could think of no other logical explanation. Either that, or you were out of your mind with drink when you proposed.

The Old Man chuckled. You certainly have a low opinion of my ability to hold my liquor, he chided. Matter of fact, she’s a right juicy little baggage, and she’ll be a true comfort to me in me old age. He roared with laughter and wound up coughing and sputtering, as he enjoyed his son’s look of utter disbelief.

Thoroughly disgusted, Grant yanked the cravat as tight as he dared without doing in his Old Man or getting himself a cuff in the head. Then he stepped back to regard the final result. Dressed and shaven, his father could pass for an honest citizen, if one overlooked the bloodshot eyes and slightly puffy face. There’s no talking sense into you. Shaking his head in resignation, he gave his father an affectionate clap on the shoulder. Hell, you’ve got younger ideas than me, sir.

You don’t think the rheumatism has slowed me down, eh? Nathaniel joked. The ache in his joints reminded him of a hundred glorious brawls and more years of cold, damp sea duty than he cared to recall. He sat down and drew on his stockings and his finest pair of leather shoes with stiffened fingers.

Not a bit, sir. Grant studied his father with a peculiar mixture of indulgent humor, impatience and, yes, admiration. Not only was the Old Man an outstanding seaman, but his complete lack of sentiment and unfailing ability to exploit other men and their weaknesses--especially his adversaries—made him respected and feared. Nathaniel Watermann might lapse into playing the buffoon in private betimes, but he was a tough, shrewd old bird and not to be underestimated.

As for being in your dotage, Grant conceded, if you don’t overdo, you’re as fit as the next man.

Aye, and I’ve still got a damn healthy appetite for the ladies, too. Giving a rascally wink, his father stretched, trying to work out a kink in his lower joints. Besides, this wedding is part of a business deal I put together with that old sailmaker, Abner Morgan. It’s to our mutual interest.

Grant chuckled. So you figured a way to get your hands in Morgan’s pocket, eh? You always did fancy owning a sail loft, as I recall.

If anything happens to the old geezer, I’ll own it all, what with his only daughter bein’ me wife. Nathaniel gave Grant a lewd wink and a poke in the ribs with his elbow.

Grant vaguely remembered meeting the old geezer a few months back. If he wasn’t mistaken, Morgan was a good deal younger than his Old Man.

Pretty devious of you, sir. Hands on hips, he cocked his head, marveling at his father’s acquisitive spirit. No wonder you did so well as a pirate.

Nathaniel pulled on a handsome waistcoat and a long doublet, both trophies from his buccaneering days. I’m countin’ on you to be at me weddin,’ son.

Grant groaned, wishing he could weasel out of being there. I’ll do my best, but first I need a hot meal and a bath. He stood and accompanied his father down the stairs until they reached the second floor landing. Off to starboard lay his own room.

His father gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. I’ll have the innkeeper send up some vittles and a pretty wench to scrub your back. Meself, I expect I can wait to tickle me fancy after the weddin’ tonight.

Still got the itch, eh, Old Man? Grant shook his head, then remembered why he’d burst in on his father before tending to his own wants first. By the way, I ran into a shipwright on Bowen’s Wharf, at the southern tip of the colony. Name's Sutherland. He seems well qualified to help us set up a shipyard here in Boston.

Good work, lad. I’ll look for a full report, after I tie the knot.

Just as I thought, sir. You’re still a bloomin’ pirate.

Nathaniel tapped his noggin and grinned. Aye, an’ don’t forget who taught you everything you know.

Grant sighed, watching his father take a nip from the flask in his pocket and swagger jauntily toward the front door at the bottom of the stairs. He wondered just how much more the Old Man’s liver could take.

See you at three at Morgan’s house, Nathaniel called over his shoulder. Invite the crew, an’ bring a barrel of me best grog to the weddin’. I guarantee there’ll be lots of grub.

Shaking his head, Grant headed off to his room, thinking, What is this older generation coming to?

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Down the hatch! Grinning back at the angel of mercy—so aptly named!— standing before her, tray in hand, Rosalyn downed the glass’s contents, as any desperate person in similar straits would. Truly, she'd found the perfect way to fortify herself against this most horrific day of days. Mercy, I couldn’t have gotten through the past few days without you, she confessed.

Mercy beamed. It hadn’t been easy coming to a new land, or living under a strange roof, but Rosalyn had gone out of her way to make her life tolerable. She dipped a curtsy, glad to be of service. ’Tis you, mistress, who has been a true friend to me, she affirmed.

More wine! Rosalyn proclaimed, extending her glass again. She watched her maid pour the dark liquid to the brim. I’m quite serious, Mercy. Without a doubt, your kindness has saved my sanity and given me new courage. Solemnly, she raised the glass to her lips again.

Mercy laughed in that airy way of hers, like a light, tinkling bell. Nay, Mistress Rosalyn, whatever courage you’re feeling doubtless comes from the wine.

Indeed, Rosalyn did feel a new surge of comfort emanating from her belly. She was beginning to view the world in a more favorable light. Well, then, if a little medicine can do this much good for this grieving heart of mine— she stuck out her glass for yet another refill, —I surely need all the courage that’s to be found!

With some alarm, Mercy watched her mistress polish off a third glass. Already Rosalyn was smiling—more relaxed, too. What could be the harm in entering marital waters well oiled the first time? she thought, taking a tiny, deliberative sip from her own glass. Aye, being tipsy would be a sight better than facing an old fumbler between the sheets, cold sober!

Mercy, you’ve got to help me! Rosalyn’s whispered plea startled Mercy out of her reverie. She had thought Mrs. Cookson’s elderberry wine would have done the trick nicely. But the way Rosalyn was clutching her sleeve with trembling fingers, and her eyes so desperate—

The servant girl took the glass from her mistress’s trembling fingers, thinking to lead her young mistress to the bed and help her lie down.

"Could you smuggle me up a