The Bride and the Buccaneer

By Darlene Marshall

Winner, First Coast Romance Writers Beacon Award!

"Lucky Jack" Burrell's quest for revenge against Sophia Deford will have to wait until he discharges a debt. He has to help her find the fabled pirate treasure Garvey's Gold, then he can wring her dainty neck.

Sophia has no intention of sharing anything with anyone. She will have all of Garvey's Gold, no matter how much Jack's lean-muscled body makes her want to get to know him just a little bit better before she gets rid of him.

As the two adversaries squabble their way across Territorial Florida following the clues on their treasure map, they know that before they're through they're either going to kiss each other, kill each other, or both.

Praise for The Bride and the Buccaneer:

5/5! "I can’t say enough how wonderful this book is. The ending is just perfect--and will have you laughing and sighing, and not wanting this adventure to come to an end...A wonderful tale full of humor, adventure, and a lovely romance that will sweep you away."--Smexy Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darlene Marshall
• Release date: Jun 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311655882

Darlene Marshall

Darlene Marshall is the author of award winning historical romance featuring pirates, privateers, smugglers and the occasional possum. Her novels include What the Parrot Saw (High Seas #4), The Pirate's Secret Baby (High Seas #3), Castaway Dreams (High Seas #2), Sea Change (High Seas #1) The Bride and the Buccaneer, Captain Sinister's Lady, and Smuggler's Bride. She's hard at work (more or less) on her next novel. Marshall lives in North Central Florida, the setting for some of her novels. It's a land of rolling hills, gators, massive flying insects, and humidity like a wet smack in the face. Only the strong (and the air-conditioned) survive. She loves working at a job where office attire is shorts and a flamingo festooned shirt, and she loves to hear from readers.

Book preview

The Bride and the Buccaneer

…Running a bookstore is hardly living a sybaritic life of revelry, Captain Burrell. What a whining person you are, to carry on so after all this time! Take me to Florida and we will find enough treasure that all your dreams of avarice and luxury will be fulfilled. You can retire from robbing ships and play at highwayman or do whatever else suits you. And you never have to see me again.

If I throw you to the sharks, I also never have to see you again!

Yes, but you will not have Garvey’s Gold. And Whitfield might get it. Then how would you feel?

You don’t have what it takes to find Garvey’s Gold, he sneered, firing his last salvo.

She stood and leaned forward, hands flat on the table, her face so close to his she could see the stubble on his square chin.

"The treasure is estimated to be worth fifty thousand pounds, Captain Burrell. Fifty thousand pounds. I would walk through Hell, barefoot, to get fifty thousand pounds of gold and silver. And I wager you are willing to put up with me to get your share of the booty."

If I join you in this fool’s quest, your share might be only twenty-five thousand.

We shall see, was all she said. She sat back down in the chair, watching Jack Burrell pace his cabin, glaring at her. This wasn’t playing out as he intended. No more so than the scene in the cave some five years back. He still underestimated her, and that was a good thing. She couldn’t relax her guard, not now, but if she could keep leading him along, she might get the prize in the end.

And then she could deal with Lucky Jack Burrell once and for all. The man simply was not cut out for a life of larceny, at least not with her in his vicinity…

Also By Darlene Marshall

Captain Sinister’s Lady

Pirate’s Price

Smuggler’s Bride

Castaway Dreams

The Pirate’s Secret Baby

Sea Change

THE BRIDE AND

THE BUCCANEER

DARLENE MARSHALL

Copyright © 2009 by Eve D. Ackerman

ISBN 9781311655882

Cover Art © 2009 Trace Edward Zaber

(Previously published by Amber Quill Press)

Dedication & Acknowledgments

To Micah: I told you I could write a banjo-playing hero. Hang in there, the world needs more philosophers.

To Raphi: Thanks for the French help, again. Readers, any mistakes are his, not mine.

To Howard: Always, my romantic hero.

It’s an amazing thing, fiction. Time and space expand and contract. Luis Aury’s takeover of Fernandina and Amelia Island occurred in the autumn of 1817, in case anyone’s wondering whether I messed with that timeline by having him there in the spring. I did mess with it. I wanted more pirates. And Zephaniah Kingsley and his wives are a very real part of Florida history.

The clues Sophia and Jack follow refer, mostly, to real places in Florida. Santiago de Laca is not a real mission, but San Diego de Laca was. Lucifer’s Chalice is a geological site familiar under another name to University of Florida alumni. Also, Key Marquez cannot be found on a Florida map. Kids, don’t try this at home.

Thanks also go to:

My beta readers, Cornelia and Robert Stern, and Janice Gelb.

To Kitty Markley and Mike Gordon of the Florida Speleological Society: You both offered invaluable help, and made sure I survived my first—and last—caving experience. If there are any errors in my passages on Florida caves, they’re my own and not the fault of the FSS.

The Alachua County Library District’s reference librarians, and the University of Florida librarians. Librarians rock, but reference librarians rock the hardest!

Mark Sherwood, MD for the cool why pirates wear eyepatches info.

Jennifer Bier, DVM for how to sedate a cat.

Stephen Fine for having fast answers when I had music questions.

Compuserve’s Books and Writers Community for answers on how to stash a body in a cave and also for years of support and encouragement. I wouldn’t be here without you guys.

Diana, for too many favors to ever be repaid.

CHAPTER 1

England, 1812

Stand and deliver!

It wasn’t the most original of salutations, but it had the desired effect. The driver of the ancient traveling coach pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the tired horses to a stop. There was shouting and cries of alarm from the occupants of the coach. Well they might shout, for a man on a black mare blocked the road to Reading, his greatcoat blending with the trees and the shrouding mist, giving him an ethereal aura in the moonlight. But the pistols he held were all too real, and the coach driver trembled at the highwayman’s barked command.

You in the coach! Come out, with your hands in plain sight!

There was a moment’s pause while the night itself seemed to hold its breath, then the carriage door swung open.

Step lively now, out of the coach before someone’s hurt!

A slender, tan-gloved hand gripped the door frame and then a small foot was lowered daintily to the ground, showing a shapely ankle before the woman’s skirts frothed around her feet. She stood next to the coach, eyes downcast, hooded cloak hiding her features. A moment later an older, stouter woman exited the carriage. It was she who pinned the highwayman with an angry gaze and shrilled, You won’t get away with this, you blackguard! Do you know whose carriage this is?

Aye, the highwayman said, his deep voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his lower face. It’s the carriage of Lord Whitfield. Come out of there, Whitfield!

No one else emerged from the carriage, and the highwayman’s brows drew down in a frown. He brought his pistol to bear on the driver, who himself looked nearly as ancient as the equipage he sat atop.

Where is Whitfield?

The coachman spat over the side of the seat.

Like as not he’s back home, safe in front of his fire. Sent his carriage to fetch this young lady, that’s all I know.

The silent girl still spoke not a word. But she raised her head, covered by her plain, serviceable cloak, and the moonlight offered the highwayman a glimpse of two large eyes before she lowered her gaze to the ground again.

The older woman took a step forward. I am Mrs. Rupert Dingle, cousin to Lord Whitfield, and this is Miss Sophia Deford, Lord Whitfield’s ward!

The highwayman didn’t respond to this, but stared at the girl a moment longer, then looked at the coachman.

Driver, pass me down the bags, easy now.

What bags?

Do not play games with me. I know what you are carrying.

They’re in the coach, the driver grumbled.

Then fetch them quickly, and do not try any heroics or we’ll see whether the baron wants a coachman with a pistol ball in him.

The driver hustled to comply, climbing down and grabbing the heavy satchel out of the coach. He held it out to the waiting thief, who took it one-handed from the older man, and rapped out, Turn around!, before putting up his pistol and securing the bag.

Do not just stand there man, do something! Mrs. Dingle shrilled.

Ain’t my gold, the driver said phlegmatically, staring at the coach.

Mrs. Dingle started to remonstrate with the coachman, but the thief retrieved his pistol and said, Be quiet, both of you. You there! Girl! Come over here!

Here now… the coachman started, turning around, but when the pistol was pointed in his direction, he closed his mouth. It wasn’t his ward, either.

After a moment’s hesitation the young woman walked over to the highwayman’s mare. Closer, he said, gesturing with the pistol until she was standing next to his leg, and with a swift motion he leaned down and brought his arm around her, easily lifting her small frame into the saddle in front of him. The driver and chaperone started to protest as one, but the highwayman yelled, Silence!, and his menacing tones, not to mention concern for the safety of their charge, stopped them.

Miss Deford is going to travel with me. If you do not pursue us, she will not be harmed. But if you make any attempt to do aught but continue your journey, this young woman’s blood will be on your hands!

With that he tightened his grip on Sophia Deford and spurred his horse back onto the road, leaving the gaping victims behind.

* * *

Jack was so exultant over the ease of his robbery of Whitfield that he barely gave a thought to the silent young woman clutched close to him. Finally, he was revenged against Whitfield and retrieved the money the baron cheated out of him! It was money he could ill-afford to lose, with his ship so badly in need of repairs, and he was willing to do whatever it took to retrieve his gold. Even kidnap innocent young ladies.

After traveling through the woods far enough to feel a measure of safety, he noted the girl still had not spoken. Not a protest, not a shriek, not a question about their destination or her fate.

Poor little chick, he thought, she’s probably scared witless. She smelled of violets, and the delicate scent combined with the feel of her small frame in his arms brought Jack’s slumbering conscience awake. He had never robbed someone before, though it was his own money he was retrieving, so it wasn’t really robbery. At least that’s what he kept telling himself when he’d planned this.

Taking the girl was a rash decision, but he’d only thought of how she would offer extra protection in case the coachman carried arms. She couldn’t know he had no intention of harming her. He would set her down close enough to the road for her to find her way to civilization. Then, if Miss Deford wanted to live with a dirty dish like Whitfield, it was her choice.

Reaching the cave where he’d stashed his gear, Jack reined in the mare and dismounted before helping the girl down.

Come, he said, gesturing toward the cave. She silently followed him, and he stopped just inside the entrance. He reached up on a natural shelf for the tinder box and lit the lantern he’d left there a day earlier.

Jack knew his disguised appearance must be alarming, so he tried to pitch his voice in an unthreatening manner.

I’m sorry I had to involve you in this, Miss Deford, but it was necessary. I will build a fire so you may warm yourself, and I will be gone shortly. I can leave the lantern for you. You will be able to walk to the village from here, just a short distance to the road, and then to the left. Although, if I were you, I would think twice about living with a skinflint like Whitfield. He did not even care enough about you to hire an outrider to protect you on your journey, knowing you were traveling with his gold!

Please, sir, she said in a breathy little voice, I beg you, do not harm me.

He tched in exasperation. Whitfield had no business being guardian of this mouse, but it likely appealed to him, having control of someone terrified of her own shadow.

I have no intention of harming you, Miss Deford, I give you my word.

She moved forward a step and dropped the hood of her faded cloak, and Jack nearly dropped his lantern. The girl was gorgeous. Silver gilt hair topped a triangular, kittenish face, her pale blue eyes slanting above high cheekbones and a mouth almost too wide for that piquant frame. She was a veritable woodland sprite, a pocket Venus.

Whitfield was going to have this fragile fairy child living under his roof? Whoever sent her off to the old lecher ought to be taken out and shot!

Good Lord, child, how old are you?

Sixteen years, sir, she said in a small voice.

Oh, now this was beyond enough! If Whitfield were standing here in front of him Jack would shoot him himself, for morality’s sake, if nothing else!

I am badly frightened, sir, she whispered again, clasping her hands together at her waist. Please, I need a moment to compose myself before we go on. A moment of privacy. If I may, I will just step outside…

And now Jack himself felt like the greatest unhung rogue in Christendom for terrifying this little girl. A red flush of shame stained his cheekbones behind his scarf.

I didn’t realize I’d frightened you so—of course, Miss Deford. You do what you need to while I make the fire, and so saying, he turned his back on the young woman and busied himself kneeling at the firepit, while she stepped out of the cave’s entrance to the nearby bushes. So engrossed was he in thinking about the success of the robbery and his plans for the future that he never heard a sound.

Jack did, however, feel the full force of the blow as a fist-sized rock connected with his skull.

* * *

Sophia looked down at the fearsome highwayman, stretched out unconscious before her like a large, black hearthrug in front of the firepit.

Idiot, she murmured, and tossed the rock aside.

* * *

Jack moaned as he regained his senses, his head throbbing like all the devils of hell were dancing in it. He tried to touch the back of his head to check the damage and stopped, not because it hurt, but because his hands were securely tied behind him. And he was naked, a condition only slightly ameliorated by the flames danced merrily in the firepit. They also illuminated the slender woman seated before the fire, tugging his boots onto her rag wrapped feet. He gaped at Sophia Deford as she stood and walked a few steps, testing the fit. The chit was dressed not only in his boots, but was wearing his trousers, tucked in at the boot tops, his shirt, his cravat and his greatcoat! Her own gloves were tucked in at the waistband of the trousers. She watched as he rolled over onto his back with difficulty, for his ankles were also tied with cloth, most likely torn from his missing smallclothes, and pushed himself to a sitting position against the cave wall. He shivered, drawing his legs up for warmth—and modesty.

What is this? he rasped.

Good, you are awake. She gazed down on him with all the empathy and concern of the cat she resembled, as if he were a minor annoyance standing between her and whatever she wanted. An annoyance to be ignored, or toyed with and destroyed.

"This, Sir Highwayman, is my leave taking. She pursed her lush pink lips and looked him over. If you get out of here, you might consider a different career. You do not have much talent for this one."

Leave? He goggled at her, letting her insults pass. Where will you go, back to Whitfield?

Her laughter rang out, clear and bell-like as it echoed off the walls. Her full bodied laugh made her look more than ever like a mischievous sprite.

Why should I go live with that old reprobate now? Thanks to you, I have gold, a good horse, and freedom to do as I wish. I even have a new set of clothes!

That’s my gold! Whitfield cheated me at cards!

She looked at him blankly.

Of course he did. The whole world knows Whitfield is a Captain Sharp. Only the greenest Johnny Raw…never mind Whitfield. To let you know how much I appreciate your assistance, I will not tell the authorities you are tied up in this cave. It should give you all night to work your way free of the bonds. And here is a cover so you do not catch your death. After all, you have been of great service to me.

She walked over to him with a blanket and peered down at his naked form thoughtfully. "My, you are affected by the cold, aren’t you? Now, now, that kind of language is unnecessary, sir!"

She threw the blanket over him and turned away.

And now, goodnight and good-bye, Sir Highwayman.

Jack unclenched his jaw far enough to say, "You’re taking my money and my horse? You are nothing but a common thief!"

"Sir, I protest! You are nothing but a common thief. I am an uncommon thief!"

He played the last card of a desperate hand.

You can’t do this! You’re just a little girl!

Are you angry someone my size was able to overcome you? I did lie about one thing. I am twenty years old, not a girl of sixteen. Here is a final lesson then for you to think about this evening—because it looks like you will have a great deal of time to reflect on your sins—treachery wins out over size and muscle almost every time, Sir Highwayman.

With that she mockingly saluted him, and without another word turned on her heel and left.

He yelled impotently at her to return and untie him, but as he heard his faithless mare’s bridle jingle off into the distance, he settled for cursing her and her kind all the way back to Mother Eve.

CHAPTER 2

The springtime sun shone warm on Sophia Deford as she made her way down to the sea, refreshed after a night spent snug inside an abandoned barn, wrapped up in the highwayman’s greatcoat. She chuckled to herself, remembering the look on his face as she rode away. His indignation at being bested by a mere girl, his outrage over her taking Lord Whitfield’s money, all of it combined to put a fine gloss on a splendid evening and had given her something to smile about. For the first time in many months.

She might not have a home or a family anymore, but she had an opportunity almost no woman received, the opportunity to reinvent herself into someone new. And certainly not by living with Lord Whitfield! As her father’s cousin and Sophia’s closest living male relative, it fell to Whitfield to do his Christian duty and take Sophia into his house following the tragic death of her father, or so he told everyone. Sophia had her own thoughts on what Whitfield’s intentions toward her were, and they weren’t avuncular. When he patted her on the shoulder, his touch lingering just a bit too long, it was all she could do not to run up to her room and scrub herself all over with strong soap to remove the memory. There was no one who would take her off his hands, as Whitfield himself made clear when he went off to London, telling her to pack for her move to his house. He sent his dilapidated carriage, Mrs. Dingle, and unbeknownst to Sophia until last night, the proceeds of his excursion to the gaming hells.

She grinned to herself at the memory of how she’d escaped from that idiot back in the cave. There was no denying though that if the highwayman was an idiot, he was an idiot easy to look upon. When she’d stripped his clothes from his unconscious body she could not help but appreciate the trim muscles and lean length of him. His sun-browned form was a far cry from the fishbelly-white and flabby gamesters she saw at the manor. If she was going to throw caution to the wind and run away, shamelessly looking on a naked highwayman was a small act in comparison.

But such a rewarding act, like taking a fine horse, she thought as she patted the mare on her neck. The mare was a sturdy mount and steady, nothing showy about her to attract attention. The road was lightly traveled today because it wasn’t market day, and Sophia passed few others. She kept her head down, her hair tucked up beneath the highwayman’s old fashioned tricorne, his scarf wrapped over it and around her neck to keep the overlarge hat in place. She bought bread and cheese from a farmwife who clucked her head over such a young boy taking to the roads, but wasn’t it all too common with so many men away to war, and here was a tart for the fine lad since he had so much growing to do.

After traveling on back roads and sleeping rough, Sophia was reeling in the saddle by the time she saw her destination, and she could smell the salt tang and less attractive odors carried by the wind. It was full dark when she pulled up in front of the modest cottage on the edge of Portsmouth, and tiredly knocked at the front door.

The woman who answered peered at her nearsightedly and said, I’m sorry, lad, I do not have any work to offer. If you come around to the kitchen entrance I can give you some bread and soup. But be careful of the press gangs while you’re out.

Annie, it does me good to see you are still willing to open your door for every passing stray.

The woman blinked and whipped a pair of spectacles out of her pocket.

Sophia?

In the flesh, Miss Johnson, returned to you like a bad penny.

Oh, my dear, the retired governess said, and hauled her charge into her arms for a hug. But…what are you doing here? Where is your father?

Time enough for all that later, Annie, and I will take you up on the offer of some soup. But first I must see to this faithful mount, for she has ridden far with me these past days.

Anne Johnson blinked again, this time at the mare with her head hanging low.

Of course you must! There is a livery stable down the street. They know me, and you can stable her there, but… Miss Johnson waved her hand at the modest cottage. I do not have much extra and cannot afford to keep a horse.

Not to worry, my old friend, for I am flush with blunt.

Annie tsked disapprovingly.

You know how I feel about gambling cant, Miss Deford!

Ah, my dear Annie, if that sends you into the boughs you will positively swoon when you hear the rest of my story, Sophia said cheekily.

I doubt that, miss, but I will hear it nonetheless. After you have fed, bathed, and put on decent clothing! She grew serious. You are not hurt, are you, Sophia? No one bothered you while you traveled here?

No, I am in fine fettle, and when you hear my story…never mind, let me see to the horse first.

* * *

…and that, she said, putting down her soup spoon with a satisfied sigh, is how I came to be on your doorstep loaded down with gold and a stolen horse.

You know I cannot approve of how you obtained that gold! And you stole the man’s horse!

I am fully justified in taking both, Sophia said unrepentantly. That highwayman was a thief, and I have no doubt at all Lord Whitfield cheated my father.

Poor Mr. Deford. I do feel sorry for him, despite everything.

Sophia sighed. So do I. You know how he was, Annie. He believed there was always a better day waiting, waiting on the turn of a card, or the speed of a horse. I was just glad you were able to find another position right away.

Miss Johnson poured herself another cup of tea and topped off her guest’s cup. The surface of the tea shimmered as the rushlight flared briefly before settling back into a steady burn.

I wish I could have stayed with you, Sophia—

Do not say another word about it. You needed to be able to earn enough to provide for yourself, and we could no longer afford a governess. I daresay your frugal ways and the position you took with the Crenshawes helped you purchase this cottage, something you would not have been able to do had you stayed with us. It is a harsh world, Annie, and it is every woman for herself. I do not blame you for seizing a better opportunity.

Miss Johnson looked uncomfortable at this world view, but said nothing further about any regrets she may have had over leaving the Deford household. Sophia had seen enough of the cottage to know Annie had saved some money, but not enough to fill another mouth, though she would never say anything. But the cottage was as spotless as Sophia would have expected after years of being shown the proper way to scrub up after oneself and one’s space. She resisted the temptation to sit on her hands lest her former teacher find ink stains under her nails.

Enough about things we cannot go back and change, Annie Johnson said firmly. What do you intend to do with yourself now that you are here? And how can I assist you?

You remember how you confided in me you always wanted a shop of your own?

Annie paused in raising her cup to her lips.

"Do you remember, Sophia, how you once tried to bribe me out of a punishment with my favorite horehound drops? Somehow I suspect you are now about to attempt to bribe me with another treat near to my heart."

Not a treat or a bribe, but an investment. An opportunity. We can use these funds to open the bookstore you have always wanted and run it together.

You should marry and setting up your own home!

Sophia looked at her former teacher.

"I am twenty years old, Annie, and have been living under my father’s disreputable roof helping him host gambling parties. What man would have me for a wife? Oh, there were those who made me offers over the last few years, but none of those offers were respectable. I have never had a Season, I have no one to sponsor me in society, and my nearest relative is a man so disgusting he inspires Americans to come over and rob him."

Your highwayman was an American?

Did I not mention that? He spoke in those drawled, flat tones Americans use. I met one or two at Mr. Deford’s parties.

Annie sipped at her own cup of tea, thinking.

What about Lord Whitfield? Won’t he come looking for you here?

That is unlikely. His life is in London, and there is no reason why he would come down here. He does not dirty his hands by dealing directly with merchants or shippers. In fact, as far as he knows, I was either killed or ran off with the highwayman who has his money. There is always the possibility they will catch the highwayman, but who would believe such a wild tale from him? Besides, Father’s guests were too foxed most of the time to pay attention to how I looked above the neck, and I always did my best to stay out of their way.

It might work, but I cannot like using money you stole. It is poisoned fruit—money from ill-gotten gains. Either Lord Whitfield received it through cheating, as you said, or you robbed a highwayman to get it. I cannot feel comfortable taking this money for our own use.

Sophia looked long at the woman who had done her best to instill a strong sense of morality into her charge.

Apparently, it hadn’t worked.

She had in her grasp the means to make both their lives vastly better, and she wasn’t about to give back bags of