The Charleston Chase (Phantom Knights Book 2)

By Amalie Vantana

When you live a life of secrets, you trust no one and question everything.
Nothing could be truer for nineteen-year-old Bess Martin. In a year she has gone from being the leader of a secret spy ring, to being jilted by her betrothed, accused of murder, and driven from her home by scandal. Her need for justice leads her to Charleston in the Carolinas, and straight into the arms of a man she hoped never to meet again. Finding the people responsible for ruining her life will be no small task, but sometimes help comes from the most unexpected places.

With each promise made, a sacrifice must be given, and for eighteen-year-old Jack Martin, keeping his promise leads him on a chase filled with danger, loyalty, and betrayal. Leaving the Phantoms behind, the chase for the love of his life embroils his sister, placing her in extreme danger. He must choose between the sister he would do anything for, or the woman he cannot live without.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amalie Vantana
• Release date: Dec 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310851360

Amalie Vantana

Amalie Vantana wrote her first story at age seven. When many little girls were dreaming about being a princess, Amalie was dreaming about being a musketeer. When she's not writing adventures, she spends her time with her family, sword fighting with her husband, exploring historical locations, and searching for adventures to be had. Amalie makes her home in West Virginia with her husband.Amalie writes Historical Fiction, Action Adventure, Supernatural and Paranormal Thrillers.

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Acknowledgements

Thank you, God, for blessing me above and beyond my comprehension.

Thank you Karen and Mary for encouraging me and helping me finish this story. You are my favorites.

To Stephanie for understanding my ideas about the cover and taking them so much further.

To the Fear Slayers, you each mean more to me than I can possibly express.

To my father for cheering me on, and my mother for introducing me to the wonderful world of novels.

Boss, Doc, and Spy, thank you for helping me to create adventures worthy of being shared.

Seth and Bryant, you each inspired a character in this story, and though I will never tell you which characters, you are the best brothers-in-law a girl could ask for.

To all of my wonderful friends, thank you for being awesome, for believing in me, and remaining excited about my stories over the years.

John, thank you for always making me laugh (to the pearl that trembles in her ear), for being the first to read every story that I write, and laughing at those rare moments of insanity. You are my happy thought.

A special thank you to the Piano Guys whose music has inspired my creativity when writers block threatened.

To you, reader, thank you for taking a step back in time with me, and for all the love and support of the Phantom Knights series.

For my sisters;

Elizabeth, the determined,

Kim, the princess,

and Amanda, the ninja.

CHAPTER 1

BESS

10 February, 1817

Charleston, South Carolina

Being a spy had taught me some valuable tricks, like how to pick locks. When I was fourteen, I had discovered that I had an aptitude for unlocking barriers that were meant to keep people out. I had yet to come up against a lock that I could not undo. The key was to control your breathing. If you control your breathing, you control the beating of your heart and in turn, the fumbling of your hands. If you stay emotionally controlled, you will find your way.

It also helps when people are trusting, for trust leads to unlatched windows, and the people of Charleston appeared to be very trusting.

Stepping through an open window that was nearly as tall as I was, I let myself into a large house on Fort Street. I knew the owner to be away from Charleston; I also knew the owner had information that would serve me well.

When I took a good look at the room I had entered, I paused to stare. It was a two-story book room. On three of the walls were stocked bookshelves, and in one corner was a wooden spiral staircase that led up to a second level of bookshelves. There was a narrow walkway that encompassed all three walls. The room was unlike any I had ever seen or dreamed. Jack, my little brother, would possibly kill to possess such a room.

The window I had entered through was one in a wall of windows that overlooked a garden. There was a large desk with books and papers all stacked in orderly piles. Snapping out of my stupor, I moved to the desk first. There was a map unrolled across the center, and all the books were nautical ones. There was a stack of opened letters, so I started sifting through them.

Bills, invoices, correspondence; there had to be twenty letters there. Finally, at the bottom of the stack, I found one that interested me. It was written in a woman’s hand; the flourishing script and the slant told me as much. There was no signature, but there was a list of names—associates in league with the secret society known only as the Holy Order.

Folding the letter, I tucked it into the pocket of my black trousers. There were only two drawers but as I pulled them open, the sound of the front door opening halted my hand. When a man’s voice spoke, coming clear and loud through the wall, my heart felt like lead in my chest. I knew that voice, but I had been told that his return was not expected for another three days.

Closing the drawers quietly, I moved away from the desk to the window, slipping through without a sound.

Crouching low, to avoid being seen through any of the windows that covered the side of the house, I inched my way toward the front gate.

Everything that happened only a month ago still haunted both my waking moments and my dreams like a never ceasing nightmare. I felt as if I should have known that I was walking into a trap, but I had not, and now a friend was dead, and my dreams of a new life were shattered.

Three persons had escorted me to Charleston; Levi, who was a former Phantom under my leadership, Reverend Gideon Reid, and Mrs. Beaumont, my mother’s housekeeper. My mother had insisted I bring her housekeeper with me for respectability since I would not allow my mother to accompany me to Charleston.

When I walked off the Queen’s Reward, there was only one plan in my mind—to find all the information on the Holy Order that I could and depart the city.

George Crawford, founder of the Phantoms, had sent me to Charleston to work for his nephew’s team of spies, but when he told me that Samuel Mason had been tracking the Holy Order for months, I formed my own plans.

As we set out at the port, Levi and I were supposed to follow Mrs. Beaumont and Reverend Reid to the church he would be ministering in for a year, but Levi and I had made good our escape, directing the coachman to take us to Samuel Mason’s house instead.

Levi was down the street in our hired carriage waiting for me. When I approached Samuel’s house, I had to stop and stare, for it was beautiful. All the houses in this waterside city were different from those in Philadelphia; colorful and exotic. Samuel’s was made of grayish white bricks with three stories of white porches and white columns flanking the front. There was a black iron fence running the length of the front of the house with a black gate. When I looked upon the house, the face belonging to the master of the house flashed in my mind. Seven months had done nothing to diminish his image from my thoughts. I would have been intrigued by both the house and its master, if I did not detest the man so much.

The gate was ahead of me, but I paused at the edge of the house, for coming through the gate was a woman, smiling slightly and idly swinging her gloves from her hand. My breath stalled in my lead-feeling chest.

All of the pain from the past year slammed through me accumulating into one delirious conviction. She was responsible for it all.

She halted when she saw me. Her eyes that were a mixture of deep blue and purple, widened, and her mouth opened. She was small in stature and blonde, but I knew that the color of her hair was a pretense, like every word that ever fell from her lips. I rose up to my full height of five feet and nine inches, a giant in a sea of dainty women. Then again, I had fought a giant in the past, and he and I were nothing alike.

Raven, the woman before me hissed, recognizing the mask I wore that had a black leather raven on one side. She turned and ran.

I pushed off the ground with the balls of my feet, running hard as I pursued her. After six months of waiting for that moment, I would not waste it.

She ran across the cobblestone street into a wooded area of land that stood between the house and the water. She was fast, but she was also wearing a dress, and the fashionable boots women wore were ridiculously difficult to run in with their high heels. I was on her heels, so I leapt forward, knocking her to the ground from behind.

As a puff of air exploded from her at the force of landing on the ground, I took advantage of her momentary weakness by sitting up, rolling her over, and slamming my fist against her middle. She jerked up, gasping. Throwing my fist forward to hit her again; she jerked to the side, and my fist hit the ground. Pain shot up my hand and into my arm. I shook my hand trying to dispel the pain, and that distraction cost me.

She pummeled me in the side. Groaning against the pains her fists were creating, I grabbed her right wrist, but she used her left hand to grab my knit cap and pull my face down toward her. I released her wrist and grabbed her neck, trying to choke her. I did not want to choke the life from her, only scare her—repay her for all the trouble she caused me. When I thought about that, anger boiled my blood, and for a moment, I did want to kill her.

She shoved her hands beneath the sleeves of my jacket and dug her nails into my flesh. The pain was like little knives piercing me. I released her neck with a yelp, pulling my arms away from her clutches. She started to cough. Drops of blood were trickling down my arms, sliding onto my gloves. I threw my arm back to punch her again, but she jerked her head to the right, and her fist hit my side again, knocking me back. She scrambled up, but I was quicker.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, pins went flying as I pulled her blonde wig from her head. It served her right for not wearing a hat. Netting was covering her ebony hair. She moved until a good ten feet were between us. I stood, holding up her wig in a taunt.

What do you want, Bess? she asked, clutching her stomach.

The Holy Order, I replied smoothly, running strands of her wig between my fingers.

No, she said.

So be it! Dropping her wig, ready to run at her again, she raised her hand, and the late morning sunshine glinted off a silver blade. I had but a second to react as her hand came down, sending a dagger flying at my chest. I leapt to the right, and the blade sailed past me.

Landing on the hard ground, pain shot through my ribs. As I blew out a furious puff, everything inside of me went rigid in a burning desire to cause her as much pain as she had caused me. I pushed myself to my knees, but she was beside me before I could get to my feet. She kicked my stomach, and I let out a shout as I fell back. The witch dropped to her knees on my stomach; the tip of a sharp blade placed against my temple.

I do not want to hurt you. She shrieked as I pinched her leg. She slapped my cheek, sending an ache through my face; then she pressed her blade against my neck. But I will if you do not leave Charleston. She kept the blade against my throat as she rose. I did not move for I knew she would cut my throat. Today, she added before kicking my side, hard. Fiery pain covered my whole side as I rolled over gasping then coughing.

She started to walk away.

Guinevere, I called out. She looked over her shoulder at me. I am not leaving.

We shall see, she replied before retrieving her wig and half running, half limping down the street.

As I rose up, she disappeared around the corner of a house. Fury was soaring through me as I held my side that felt like it had some cracked ribs.

The sunlight glinted off the steel of the dagger she had thrown at me. In her haste to retreat, she had forgotten it. I stumbled toward it, but could not bend over to retrieve it, so I lowered to my knees to pick it up. It was nine inches in length, and seeing the handle caused me to suck a sharp breath. Engraved in the center of the gold handle was a heart with the letters J and G. I knelt there for several painful heartbeats as my mind shouted what that stood for. It was for her, after all, that Jack had deserted me in November. He loved the vixen and would not stop until he found her.

Though Jack had never told me, I had known he was betrothed to her. I had overheard their stolen conversation at a ball when Jack had given her an engagement ring. It was the same night that she was supposed to murder James Monroe, who was about to be inaugurated as the president of our country. She had not done it, switching the poison with a sleeping draught, but the woman had done many other travesties, which was reason enough why I should keep her whereabouts a secret. I did not want my brother to do anything foolish, like marry the witch. Betrayal flashed in my heart, followed by bitter anger, for I knew he would do that if I did not stop him.

Gripping the dagger, I pushed myself to my feet, gritting my teeth against the agony in my side.

Raven? said a deep voice from behind me. My eyes slid closed as unpleasant flutters came alive inside my stomach. I knew who stood behind me.

Seven months ago, Samuel Mason and I had met under mysterious circumstances when his uncle, George Crawford, had been captured by a corrupt secret society. I had broken into George’s house, searching for clues as to his whereabouts, and while I was there, I was set upon by a masked man. He attacked me, and when he had me restrained, he kissed me. That we were on his uncle’s bed, and I was dressed as a man only added mortification to the memory. I would have been able to forget all about it if it had not been for the letter. Later that night after I returned home from a party, it was to find my pistol that he had stolen from me and a mocking, detestable, atrocious insult of a letter. I had thought that he did not know me, for I had never met him. To me he was nothing but a nameless rogue. Then came the letter and the realization that he knew that not only was I Raven, leader of the Phantoms in Philadelphia, but that I was also Bess Martin, heiress and society daughter.

I had hoped that I could break into his house, find whatever information he had on the Holy Order, and escape the city without ever having to see his lying, deceitful, rag-mannered, annoyingly handsome face again. On the ship to Charleston, I had thought too many times about that interlude and his perfect kiss.

Knowing I could not run if I tried; I slowly opened my eyes and turned. The cavity around my heart that had felt nothing but a dull ache for the past month, filled with an alarming amount of warmth. My mouth dipped open slightly as my gaze took in all of him. I was gawking, but truly it was not fair.

The man was not only handsome as I remembered. He was an intense, poetically soul-burning Adonis. His honey brown hair was pushed back with perfect wavy curls falling to his nape. His gray eyes traveled the length of me while his lips curled up in the way I remembered all too clearly.

Just so. He murmured the word, but I knew he was mocking me, for he had said that after he had kissed me.

My breath hitched as he advanced toward me, stopping much closer to me than was proper. He held out his large, strong hand. Miss Martin, I presume.

My mouth snapped closed as my common sense flooded back like a wave striking a ship. With seven months of mortification backing the action, my hand flew up and struck his cheek hard enough to make his ears ring.

CHAPTER 2

BESS

He winced, much to my gratification, and stepped back as his large hand came up to protect his reddened cheek.

His eyes met mine and his mouth drooped open. His eyes were such a pale blue that they appeared gray, and the look he was giving me was nothing short of intense. His brown hair was slicked back but in a way that sent his curls tumbling down behind his ears. His straight nose was rather—ideal. Trimmed hair ran around his mouth and down his jaw, but it was much too short to be a true beard.

He blinked with a smile on his firm mouth. I suppose I deserved that.

You deserve that and worse! I held his gaze, though his gray eyes unnerved me, the wretch!

His smile widened, and I felt a strange fluttering in my stomach again. I hated fluttering of any kind, especially the kind that meant attraction, which in my life had never proved successful.

Ah, but the experience was beneficial to us both. Before I could retort, he stepped to my side and gripped my elbow. Whatever you are going to say may wait until we are in a less open area. Come.

He did not give me much of a choice but to walk with him as he guided me across the street to his house.

At the stairs, I winced as I took the first two, but the remaining stairs were taken slowly as Samuel had noticed my pain. When we reached the top of the seven steps, he led me to the door, but it had opened before he touched it. A tall, lean man dressed in a dark suit and with skin the color of coal was before us.

Jeffrey, please fetch some water, cloths, the usual, and bring it into the book room.

I was guided through a spacious foyer with blue silk wallpaper and a wide staircase into the book room that still had the effect of making me gawk. It was truly a magnificent room. Samuel helped me to sit on a chair before his large desk then he sat on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

As delighted as I am to see you again, his eyes looked into mine, and one corner of his lips tilted up in nothing short of a roguish expression, I do not flatter myself that you came all this way only to deliver that slap.

The man had charm; I would grant him that, but he was a rogue if ever I met one. Not for that, though the prospect did make my journey more tolerable. I am here for another matter entirely.

Jeffrey the butler came in carrying a bowl, a cloth draped over his arm, and a glass decanter in his hand. He set all three down on the desk and left the room without glancing at me, closing the door behind him. I had a suspicion that he had seen much while working for Samuel Mason.

Samuel dipped the cloth in the bowl and leaned forward as if he were going to press it against my face. I leaned away from his outstretched arm, wincing at the sudden movement. He held the cloth out to me. I snatched it away, but did not press it against my cheek that Guinevere had slapped. I pushed up the sleeve of my jacket and pressed it again the claw marks that were now a bloody mess. Something in the cloth caused a slight burning sensation against my skin, but I did not remove it.

Samuel moved around his desk and pulled open a drawer. He produced two glasses and poured out what looked like brandy. One of the glasses he held out to me. Without hesitation, I took the glass.

Would you like to tell me what you are doing in Charleston, or perhaps whom you were fighting? he said after he had taken a sip.

Her name is Guinevere Clark, I said, seeing no reason to lie. I did not expect him to have heard of her. I was not sure what she was doing in Charleston. The last time I saw her was in the throne room of Levitas after I received a brand on my back.

Samuel set his glass down with a look of astonishment on his face. Indeed, and were you trying to beat information about the Holy Order from her, or do you strike every person you meet? There was a small note of humor in the words.

Scowling at him, I raised my chin higher. So he did know who she was. She deserves much worse than the blows I dealt her, I felt my eyes narrow, as do you, I will remind you.

He grinned, the teeth-flashing kind that revealed perfect white teeth. He moved to sit in his desk chair. He said nothing, but I saw the moment his smile faded, and he stiffened slightly. I moved the cloth from one arm to the other, shifting straighter in the chair. When his eyes flicked to mine, he was silently furious. If eyes could blaze fire, I would be aflame.

Do you also make it a habit of breaking into houses and stealing people’s correspondence?

A pang of regret struck me, but it was momentary. If it is necessary to my investigation, yes.

Your investigation? He leaned back in his chair crossing his arms. "Do not you mean our investigation, Miss Martin? When I did not respond, he smiled, but it was not a pleasant one. You see, I know why you are here. He picked up a letter from his desk. My uncle did not send you trusting that you would come to me for help. He sent a letter that arrived on the same ship you did. A porter delivered it while you were no doubt fighting in the field."

George would do that, vexatious man! I wanted to snatch the letter away from him and to read what George said, and then burn the letter.

Samuel raised the letter, saying, Uncle George writes that he has sent you to join my team. That together he knows we will be successful in destroying the Holy Order. He refolded the letter and tossed it on his desk. I am curious, Miss Martin. Are you capable of following orders? Samuel’s voice was calm, but his eyes were gray storm clouds threatening thunder and possibly some lightning.

Yes, sir, I replied without emotion.

Then why, Miss Martin? He did not need to say more; I knew he wanted to know why I broke into his house, stole his letter, and had no intention of approaching him for help.

George has no authority to order me to do anything, I informed him.

True, but then you have no authority to go after the Holy Order. You are no longer a Phantom.

I wanted to stand and walk out, but he would never let me leave with the stolen letter. My investigation would be back to nothing without that letter unless Guinevere could be found and forced to give me the information I needed.

When I did not reply, Samuel was out of his chair in an instant. Leaping to my feet, I barely held in a cry at the sudden burst of pain. Rounding the chair, facing him and ready for a fight, I would not give him the higher ground.

It was a lesson that my father taught me. I made him angry once—well, more than once—but one significant time. He made me sit in a chair while he paced before me in brooding silence. The silence was meant to make me squirm. When I showed signs of being truly intimidated, he would let me have the full force of his anger in his words. I remember shivering with my shoulders hunched over in defeat, regret, and a little fear. But, when I chanced to glance up into his eyes, he was waiting for me to react. He was teaching me a lesson. I straightened in my chair and listened until he was finished, and then I stood, rendering a formal apology with my shoulders squared, holding his gaze. We stared at each other until my father broke a smile. He told me that unless it was him or a person that I looked upon as my authority, never was I to cower or to give up the higher ground. I would face my adversary and never let my emotions show on my face.

Watching Samuel’s every movement and keeping my breathing even was all pretense. Inside, I was not feeling confident at all. He took slow steps toward me; his eyes moving over all of me. It was as if he were sizing up a horse instead of looking upon a respectable, well, almost respectable female. A piece of my ground was taken away as he stopped before me, and I had to look up to see his eyes.

Do you want my help, Miss Martin? He asked softly.

Did I? No, not truly, but what other choice was open to me? He held the power. He could turn me over to the constables if he liked, but I did not think that was what he wanted. He wanted to hear me ask for his help. Yes, I said with a firm voice that I inwardly congratulated myself on.

Then why steal from me? I hesitated to reply, and he frowned. You do not mean to tell me? I could order you to do so, you know. There was no threat in his voice, only fact.

Yes, sir, and as the leader of the team I am wishful to join, I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me call him my leader, I would be coerced to tell you.

His eyes were staring penetratingly into mine, then, slowly they dropped to my lips. My body stiffened all over. That would not happen again. When the moment passed, his gaze flicked back to mine.

His voice dropped as he said, It is not my will to coerce you, Miss Martin. I believe you stole my letter because the Holy Order is in some way connected to why you are here.

Being a spy, confession was foreign to me, but I was feeling guilt again over having stolen the letter from him, and my guilt made me want to confess. He did not give me a chance.

Will you follow every order that I give you? His gray-blue eyes bore into me, searching through the files of my soul for every crime I had ever committed.

My shoulders straightened. To the best of my conscience.

His dark brows shot up causing three lines to form on his forehead. What may that mean?

Only this; I have been working this job for a long time. I have been trained by the best and have the highest perception in the field. I know when to follow orders, and I know when to make my own decisions.

Indeed, he stepped nearer, his legs brushing the front of the chair, "and can I