The Wager

By J. Jay Kamp

The Wager, the second book in The Ravenna Evans Series.

Set in Belize seven years after The Last Killiney ends, The Wager is about how Ravenna Evans, lonesome and bored, is kidnapped by the scruffiest of outlaws. The grandson of a murderous smuggler, Bill Wyckham may look like a pirate, but his moustache and goatee hide the most handsome face Ravenna’s ever seen—attractive enough to make her forget the passing of her dear husband, Paul. However, when one possesses a time-travel potion, dear departed husbands don’t stay dead for long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Jay Kamp
• Release date: Jul 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466078499

J. Jay Kamp

Born to an Anglophile school-district clerk and an asphalt paver who loved to fish, J. Jay Kamp has been writing books about England and the sea since 1991. Her love affair with country houses has compelled her to visit over one hundred historic properties and spend far too much time in the British Library. With Admiral Lord Nelson and George Vancouver as heroes, J. Jay has an unrelenting appetite for maritime history. Touring Victory, Nelson's flagship, was one of the highlights of her many travels, as was visiting the Mayan ruins of Tikal in Guatemala, snorkeling the beautiful barrier reef of Belize, taking in the Georgian architecture of Dublin, Ireland, and walking the windswept landscapes of the West Country in England. Her favorite place in the world, however, remains closed to her: Protection Island in Washington State, where she spent the summers of her youth. It is a National Wildlife Refuge and, as such, off limits to the public.J. Jay Kamp's work has won two contests sponsored by the Romance Writers of America: The Bayman's Bride took top honors in the 1997 "Emerald City Opener" (historical category), while The Last Killiney (then called 'Til Death Do Us Part) received honorable mention in the paranormal "On the Far Side" contest the same year.Having been an administrative assistant for most of the last decade, J. Jay is currently a full-time writer and mother of three (cats, that is). She is presently working on a new project, a story about Ravenna Evans and the Irish Rebellion of 1798.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

The Wager

Book Three in The Ravenna Evans Series

By J. Jay Kamp

Copyright 2011 by J. Jay Kamp

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All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The Ravenna Evans Series:

The Last Killiney

The Bayman’s Bride

The Wager

Cover background photo of Higher Melcombe Manor courtesy of Lorel Morton and Michael Woodhouse at http://www.highermelcombemanor.co.uk/

Inside cover photo of Bat’s Head to White Nothe, Dorset Coast courtesy of Jim Champion.

Chapter One

Belize Town, Central America, 1800

Ravenna loved rain, but this was a bit much.

Where she waited at the larboard rail of the schooner, she felt the pummeling of the squall at her back. She’d known James was taking them to the Bay of Honduras at the height of monsoon season, but all her brother’s descriptions of tropical climes and hurricanes hadn’t prepared her for this. Her waterproofed habit was stifling in the humidity. Her bonnet sheltered her face so that her vision, though raindrop-free, was narrowed down like a horse with blinkers. Where she stood behind her seven-year-old, she thought maybe the width of her skirts afforded Elijah some protection, so she didn’t relish the sight of James beckoning her son across the schooner’s planks toward the sailors who’d lob him into the gig.

Still, she released her hold on the boy, tried not to wince as he was lifted by the master’s mate, tossed down like cargo to the fellows sloshing in the boat below. Although she’d seen them do this before in Jamaica, she still couldn’t get used to it: her one and only child, miniature replica of his dear, departed father, pitched over the side right after her luggage.

Hey, there! James’s booming voice cut through the racket of rain on deck. Take care with Lord Launceston or I’ll have your heads, both of you.

She knew they hadn’t harmed her son. In fact, Eli had loved it. Already he’d scrambled to the bow of the gig, was shouting something about pirates whilst brandishing a belaying pin stolen from Amelia’s rigging. No, the sailors’ brusque handling was the least of her worries. From the moment she’d talked her way onto this trip, Ravenna had understood it wasn’t snakes or storms or intermittent fever that might risk her son’s life, it was the boy’s own enthusiasm. London streets or mahogany forests, Elijah would find what dangers he could, then throw himself pell-mell into them.

Luckily the sailors had been most helpful, and by the time Ravenna had descended the ship’s ladder and gotten near her son’s exuberance, the boatswain controlled the situation. He’d taken away the belaying pin. He demanded the boy behave, and soon James was there—forceful, slightly curt to the youngster—so that Elijah Paul Hallett, eleventh earl of Launceston, obeyed finally and sat quiet as a young peer should.

The schooner’s hull fell away from their gunnels. Ahead, the dull green of mangroves and palms was interspersed with houses, wharves, small boats of every description. The wind lashed Ravenna’s face as she looked at it, this settlement on the fringes of the Caribbean, and inside, her heart surged with excitement: Would they find him? Would James be inconsolable if they didn’t?

Best not think of that particular possibility.

It seemed only a short while before the docks grew nearer, before Ravenna had to grapple for purchase on her son’s frock to keep him in the gig until the order was given. Huddled in the bow, she waited while James leapt out with the sailors. She watched him approach an official-looking man, the customs officer, surely. Her brother towered over the fellow. Six-foot-four, severe in his dark clothes and dark, cropped hair, James was intimidating enough; with desperation showing in the set to his shoulders, he must have seemed downright fearsome as he drilled the officer for information. Ravenna couldn’t hear their discussion over the rain. Still, she guessed James’s questions: Did anyone know the Spaniard? Had anyone seen the Spaniard’s wife?

And then, just as she scolded Eli to be still for the eighteenth time, she saw James spin around and look behind them. The customs official pointed there, and with nary a word or even a glance her way, James strode off between two clapboard buildings and disappeared.

A curse caught in Ravenna’s throat, so shocked she was. How dare James do this! It was bad enough he’d wanted to leave her in London. Now he ditched her? After a month-long voyage, was she to be forced to wait here like a helpless, stupid girl?

Eli, stay in the boat with the men. She hoped the sailors wouldn’t stop her as she clambered out onto the slippery dock. It wasn’t easy, even with her sensible flat-soled shoes, but she hurried past the officer in the direction James had gone.

How had she expected it to appear, this outpost on the Belize River? Jamaica had seemed like Portsmouth, only with pelicans instead of seagulls, the constant buzzing of cicadas instead of flies. Orderly, civilized, a quiet seaside town with public buildings and banana trees—that’s what their last port of call had been. Yet when she got to the clapboard houses and turned the corner, Ravenna was astonished. Belize was nothing like Kingston. To begin with, every man, woman and child of the settlement was in the street. Talking, laughing, drinking, smoking pipes—it was a grand, hospitable atmosphere even though the rain beat down, even though the street wasn’t a street at all, but a boardwalk over mud and debris. And the public buildings, there were none to speak of; rather, weathered houses of wood painted white stood high on posts above the mire. There were banana trees. Pelicans, too, perched on roofs. Occasionally, she spied a Scotsman amidst the crowd, but otherwise the scene seemed straight out of Africa: for these tall, beautiful and jovial people, so glad to be carrying on their business in the rain, were slaves one and all.

She wasn’t frightened by it. James had told her slavery was different in Belize, that there was nothing to fear. Ahead, by some fellows carrying kegs on their backs, she caught a glimpse of him, and it was toward this target she proceeded. James! Cupping her hand, she shouted it. How could he do this? She wanted to be there when it happened, he knew as much! She didn’t care if the whole of Honduras came between them, she would see his face when he first shook hands with the Spaniard. It was all James wanted in the world. It was all Ravenna wanted, to see James content.

So she pushed through some fellows drinking rum, pressed on up the street with her goal in sight, dodging men carrying machetes as she went. Her bonnet made it hard to see anything other than the immediate pedestrian she overtook, but she did her best, strove to catch James until suddenly she realized there was something running along beside her, something small, just out of her blinkers’ view.

Her son.

She didn’t have time to be enraged, nor to threaten his rebellious little hide. In an instant, he was past her. He’d slipped between two girls holding banana leaves over their heads for cover, was shouting something about pirates in glee. He scurried off toward what looked to be another wharf on the river. Blast James for giving him that pirate book! All their plans, all James’s dreams, they dissolved into fears of her child dumped in the water, or worse. She had to go after him.

So abandoning her pursuit of the tall, black-clad form that was her brother, she hurried onto the wharf, began hunting the crates and kegs for the sight of Eli’s sun-bleached head. How far could he have gotten, anyway? With canoes unloading, there was plenty to search, and she panicked when his freckled face didn’t appear amongst those Belizeans, when she didn’t find his buff-colored suit through the gloom.

Then finally she spied him. Relief flooded her senses…until she saw who was talking to her precious child. Not an African. Not one of those upstanding Scotsmen she’d been told resided in these logging communities, but a scoundrel—a rough-looking character indeed—was bent down to Elijah’s level, deep in conversation with her son.

She saw immediately why Eli had sought him, for obviously that’s what had happened: her son had run off to intercept this lout. The fellow wore a scuffed black hat worthy of Kidd or Teach or Bartholomew Roberts. He was lean, suntanned as the devil. His coat, tattered and hanging off him in such a way it reminded her of a horse blanket, was fifty years out of style. And he was dirty. Or stained with pitch, she wasn’t sure which. Either way, when he lifted a hand to point something out on shore to her son, she couldn’t miss the black to his fingers, nor the pistol tucked in the sash at his waist. She noticed, too, the point of a sword through his coat skirts. His goatee was long. His moustache was thick. A sweat-stained scarf hid his brow, and his hair hung lengthy and wild behind it: ratty brown tresses and dreadlocks dripped at his wide, hollowed cheeks so that the whole assemblage made him appear like a pale Jamaican in disarray.

Or a pirate.

She knew she should thank him for having kept her son safe. Still, she was shaken. When she reached them, she couldn’t help it; she scooped Elijah into her arms, picked him up the way she used to before he’d gotten big enough to protest. Thank God you’re all right, she said, clutching him, ignoring his objections. What were you thinking? What did I tell you about running off?

But Mother, he’s Blackbeard, he’s—

I don’t care who he is, and she glanced over her child’s head to see the scoundrel staring back at her, he’s nobody you need to be bothering.

And that’s where it should have ended. At that moment, she might have carried her adventure-obsessed offspring back to the boat. This place—this pirate—was probably unsafe, and she’d best get away while she could.

Yet there was something curious to the way the rogue stood there. It drew her attention from her boy’s wriggling, for had she ever had a man stare at her so? Where he swayed as if on unsteady feet, the fellow’s eyes, black as the kohl smeared under them, fixed upon hers, and those eyes were remarkable. Too beautiful to belong in such an unshaven face, they were long-lashed, soulful, rampant with emotion. In an instant, she realized she’d seen his perfectly boned features before. In that same instant, over Eli’s head, she saw the man’s mouth drop open. Lady Killiney, he said, brows furrowing sharply, what in Titan’s name are you doing in Honduras?

She didn’t know where she’d met him. She didn’t care. With the waver to his stance, he was plainly drunk, and so clasping her son tight, she didn’t think it prudent to catch up on old times with such a wayward person. I should be going, she said hurriedly, disregarding his question. My brother’s waiting for me, so if you wouldn’t mind—

Lord Wolvesfield? He’s here?

Oh, but James would be furious if he learned of this encounter. Thinking it, she didn’t hesitate to turn away from the knave, to head back up the quay toward the boardwalk, the slaves, the gig.

Wait! M’lady— She heard his deep, guttural shout beside her, but she couldn’t see him for the sides to her bonnet. M’lady, perhaps I do not seem overly familiar. Last we spoke was at your husband’s funeral two years past, do you remember?

Ravenna’s footsteps slowed. Images of that day, too painful to bear, were at no time far from her thoughts: Paul lying in a black, pearly coffin, Paul’s rugged face, so dear to her always, motionless beneath her final kiss. With the rain drumming on her head, she turned to the scoundrel, tried to place his damp cheekbones amongst the scores of men who’d grieved that day. Paul had befriended so many people. How could she differentiate between one hard-luck case and another? I’ve never seen you before in my life, she lied, coming to a stop to confront his wavering, lanky frame.

He nodded. Fair enough. He squinted in the downpour. Taller than her, the same age by the look of him, he tottered, and she heard the little tinkling of what appeared to be seashells and coral tied into his hair. We’ve met only three times before, so I’ll give you that. You don’t recall. He raised a blackened finger, and she saw a tattoo there, mired in the pitch, as he went on, But I knew Lord Killiney. The lout brightened as if remembering Paul’s easygoing ways. Now your husband could tell a story, he could. Always talked about you, how you’ve—

"What is it that you want, mister…" What was his name, anyway? She’d seen him, yes, somewhere with Paul, and envisioning her love’s face, she fought off the stabbing in her heart. Don’t think of it. Instead, with the boy squirming to get down, she tried sheltering Eli and at once keeping him still, waited while the man considered.

Wyckham, the fellow replied at last, William Wyckham. Or Bill, if you like.

Well, Mr. Wyckham, begging your pardon, but it’s raining, and my son is without a hat. So if you’d kindly…if you’d… She faltered in her demands, for the rogue was already taking off his buccaneer tricorn to plop upon Eli’s head. That’s nice, thank you, and she caught the grin he gave her, self-satisfied in his cleverness, but if you’d tell me what you’re after, Mr. Wyckham, we might all get out of this storm sooner.

What I’m after? His grin widened, revealing several gold teeth to either side of those white and straight in the middle. Apart from my saying hello, you mean?

She could well guess greetings weren’t his only intention, not with the gleam to his pitch-black eye. Indeed, his gaze lowered. Just as she’d expected, he stared down the front of her, looked over her bosoms, her waist, whatever he could see of her figure. He cleared his throat, said, Well, then, I’ll come clean. It’s not every day a viscountess such as yourself shows up in Honduras, especially one who’s the wife of a dear friend. What say you—, and he nudged her conspiratorially, —we get out of this rain and share a bottle of Merlot at my house? Gazing at her, his expression was completely innocent of any improper suggestion or seduction, and Ravenna wasn’t sure how to react. Behind him, she saw two of Amelia’s sailors plainly searching for her amidst the crowd. One thing was certain: she had to get back. Friend of Paul’s or no, she shouldn’t be standing here encouraging such proposals.

Still, something caused her to linger. Eli of course now begged her to accept the rascal’s invitation, and as if they’d all sit down for tea, he began telling the scoundrel about Blackbeard burying treasure in Honduras. It was a story he’d read in the pirate book, and having heard it, Ravenna’s thoughts centered on the man’s dark eyes, on the way he rested one hand at his pistol. He nodded in response to Eli’s story. The treasure’s on Ambergris Caye, that’s right, he agreed, but Ravenna didn’t care about the doubloons he’d found on the beach after a gale, or the emerald cross he’d discovered. She felt the oddest sensation of familiarity when he raised hopeful brows in addressing her. Anyway, if you’d consent to spend the afternoon, and his words were velvety, slightly slurred, I promise to procure whatever you want in Belize. Pirate swag, a logwood work, whatever you came for. What say you?

In place of the memory nagging at the edge of her thoughts, she focused instead upon his question. The Spaniard, remember the Spaniard. Do you know Miguel de Escalante? She heard herself ask it, saw him study her carefully before he answered. His free hand, the one not resting on his weapon, rose to touch his bearded chin.

I know him. All the mirth went out of those rich, dark eyes, and he wasn’t swaying, not anymore.

Ravenna felt a flicker of hope. Do you know where to find him?

It surprised her when Wyckham leaned forward suddenly, too close for comfort. I know where to find him. Therefore, and he moved nearer still until she felt the warmth of his exhalation on her face, you must do me one small favor, love. Although he was closer than a gentleman ought ever approach, she smelled no alcohol on his breath—coconuts, definitely, but no rum. Then he touched her arm, and rather than worry about why he’d gotten so close, she was instantly overwhelmed with that memory again, eating at her subconscious so that she felt she’d go mad if she couldn’t place his distinctive cheeks, his strong chin. Something about him standing over her, giving her a pistol, imploring her with lashes impossibly long. If you’d be so thoughtful as to take me, m’lady, and his fingers slid up her arm, made her shiver with the feel of his caress, his proximity, the reasonableness of his tone, take me along with you for an hour or two. That’s all I ask.

She frowned. What exactly do you mean?

I mean that you want Escalante. I want the company of a woman such as yourself: a smart, high-spirited, well-traveled woman—

Well-traveled? Was he insulting her now?

—who is capable of conversing about subjects more worldly than the price of mahogany or the gossip in Kingston.

She backed away from his grasp in a deliberate motion, tried not to think about how long it’d been since anyone had touched her in any way, shape or form. Look, and she set Eli down, confronted the rogue, I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m not interested in making new friends. I’d simply like to know where to find the Spaniard.

Wyckham shook his head. Then where would I be, love? Wouldn’t it be more enjoyable for us all if we traveled there together?

She turned from him at this point, tugged Eli toward the boardwalk, the town, the sailors.

Lady Killiney! She continued on up the street, ignored him keeping pace with her, for she spied Amelia’s crewmen only a few yards off. M’lady, I beg you… Hearing Wyckham, she cursed. Damned if she would be seduced by a pirate! Who did he think he was, anyway? If he knew Escalante, so might others, and decent Scotsmen they’d be, too; she wouldn’t be tricked into suffering this scoundrel even as he tried to persuade her, calling out, M’lady, if you would honor your husband’s friendship with me and—

Leave me alone. She kept walking, caught the attention of the nearest sailor—McGregor, if she remembered correctly—and she wasted no time in asking James’s whereabouts, dragging Eli in that direction. She didn’t even flinch when Wyckham jumped in her path to stop her.

"Please take me with you?" For all his grunginess, he appeared in that instant like a boy, pleading some favor with all the power of his huge, brown eyes.

Somehow she got around him. She made it to the street, to the slaves conducting their business. She was just about to turn toward the large house McGregor had pointed to when, again, she was confronted with Wyckham’s tenacity.

What do you want? she demanded, letting Eli go.

Standing squarely in their way, Wyckham had none of that quality of needfulness now. There was something dangerous to his gaze. The truth? He cocked his head to one side, his words a throaty growl. About fifty thousand pounds and a good night’s sleep should do it. Fortunately, you can give me both. He seized her, so sudden it made Ravenna shriek from surprise more than anything else. She tried to get away. Yet his fingers squeezed into her arm as he told her, Oh no you don’t, love. You’re with me now. For the first time she feared for her son’s life, her life, as the rascal’s eyes widened and narrowed by turns. This is fate, eh? He whispered it close. And you can’t escape fate, darling. None of us can.

In an instant, she was forced up the street. She screamed James’s name, cried for help to all they passed along the way, but no man noticed. Was Belize such a place of thugs and villainy that even Scotsmen couldn’t be bothered to save her?

Hauled along, she realized Eli had escaped. She hoped he’d gone for James, and frantically she sought her brother’s face in the crowd. What good did it do? She was forced through the mud, through countless preoccupied Africans, until they’d reached one of those white-painted houses. You have got at least fifty thousand pounds, have you not? Wyckham ushered her up the steps, asked, In London? In the Bank of England?

It won’t do you any good when you’re dead.

She remembered the last time her brother had protected her. He’d killed her first husband. Lord Launceston—or Christian, as she’d called him—had separated her from Paul, tricked her into marriage, then tried to rape her before Paul returned. James had run Christian through with a rapier. He’d do no less to Wyckham.

If the scoundrel was familiar with James’s reputation, he showed no sign of it. He led Ravenna into the house. She was trembling now. The rain on the roof beat a cadence fast as her heart when Wyckham made straight for a bureau, tugged her along as he bent to search through its numerous drawers. He tossed aside papers and shoes. He threw books. You’re not married, are you? He dropped a ring of keys. Not now?

When he turned, all hope of fleeing drained right out of her. He waved a set of manacles at her, and she knew what was coming. She fought tooth and nail, tried everything to stave off the rogue’s determination, to seize his gun or his sword in defense…but Wyckham succeeded in the end. He had her. The iron was fixed round her right wrist, its mate locked to his left hand.

He then took the keys, and though Ravenna dug in her heels, he made it to the railing outside and, to her horror, threw the key ring in a perfect pitch far into river. What’s that supposed to accomplish? she asked, breathless. You think this will win my heart? You think James will pay fifty thousand pounds to get me back?

Wyckham broke into another gold-edged smile, dazzling against his bronzed skin, and she wondered if he were mad when he explained, "No, I think you shall forfeit all your money when you marry me in Jamaica."

Marry you?

Aye, that’s where the nearest church is. That’s where dear brother shall try liberating you from my company. Until then, you’d best learn to like ol’ Bill because it’s just the two of us, darling. He rattled the chain between them and winked. It’s just you and ol’ Bill Wyckham.

Chapter Two

Marry me in Jamaica…The words echoed in Ravenna’s thoughts, too similar to what Christian had uttered all those years before. She’d married him in Barbados. To keep James’s secrets safe, to give Paul’s unborn child a name, a father, an earldom, she’d surrendered to trickery and blackmail, not to mention verbal and then physical abuse. She wouldn’t let that happen again. She’d die first.

So when Wyckham looked away, she punched him. Right into his well-proportioned nose, she landed her chain-clutching fist.

Wyckham didn’t buckle. Rather, in a jingle of seashells, he caught that hook, absorbed it, then turned to assess her with a taint of guilt to his haggard-looking scowl. I probably earned that, to be sure. He wavered, and she saw blood trickle into his moustache. He raised a hand to wipe it away before sniffing, meeting her stare once more. However, we’ve no time to explain the exigency of my situation.

Faster than she could cuff him again, he pulled her into the house. He made for the kitchen, and she thought about screaming once more as he set to filling a satchel with bananas, bread, a bottle of wine. Could she be heard from the street? She doubted as much, so from room to room she tagged along silently, looking for any opportunity to trip him, knock him on the head with candlesticks or furniture or whatever she could find…but it was futile. He moved too quickly. He sidestepped the heavy clock she threw. When she took off her bonnet to strangle him with its ribbon, he batted it out of her grasp. In fact, he didn’t appear concerned in the slightest. He merely swung a quilt over his rangy shoulder, went hunting through a trunk until he’d come up with a telescope, a vial of something liquid, and slipped both into his voluminous pockets.

Slowly, amidst her efforts to punch him, it occurred to her: He was taking her to Jamaica. With the realization, she panicked. How could James rescue her if he couldn’t find her? And what would this rascal do once he’d gotten her away on a ship? If she didn’t act now, all might be lost…so when Wyckham turned back and faced her again, she kneed him in the groin with every scrap of fear in her soul.

He didn’t raise a hand to strike her, no, not the way Christian once had. Instead, his features contorted. Listing forward, he groped at parts hidden under his sash, under the length of his waistcoat, and seeing his mouth shape a perfect O in utterance of that manly pain, Ravenna didn’t hesitate. She bolted.

It was she who did the dragging then. Memories of Christian attacking her, they fueled her desperation as she scrambled back onto the porch. James! She bellowed it, felt Wyckham behind her, but she didn’t stop struggling against his weight until she’d gotten to the bottom of the steps and accosted an African strolling up the boardwalk. Please… She grabbed the slave’s shirtfront, leaned up against his chest. Please, will you help me? The tears came fast to her eyes, yet she couldn’t say anything further, for the African glared with a snarl to his lips.

I help no missy o’ dey Wyckham, he said and cast her roughly aside.

She was left to shiver, to feel hopeless as the rain beat down, as Wyckham’s grip alighted once more at her arm. She only caught a glimpse of his expression—like a fish out of water, his eyes too wide, his mouth twisted in a grimace of agony from the blow she’d delivered—before she felt herself heaved over his shoulder and packed off like a wet sack of rye.

She couldn’t have fought any longer if she’d tried. What might she have done? Taken his gun and shot him? No, even if she were able, she wouldn’t. No more death. She’d witnessed Christian’s murder, that fateful day when he’d bled to