The Pirate's Yuletide Treasure: Christmas for Ransome, #3

By Katherine Bone

The NEW expanded novella of the short story, The Pirate's Yuletide Treasure!

 

A severe blizzard is on its way, but Captain Ansell Ransome is determined to get to Whitstable to meet his wife, Cassia, before they journey onto Canterbury to spend the Yuletide. However, as a renowned smuggler and barterer of British prisoners of war and contraband, he will have to be nimble and dodge the revenue riders and other smugglers, all of who long to capture him.

 

When Ansell doesn't arrive in Whitstable, Cassia decides to travel to Canterbury, with his faithful crewman, Dunn, for protection, and hope her beloved husband will turn up safe in time for Christmas Day. But she, too, would be a prize for the coastal riders and lawless, and danger lurks behind every snow-blanketed hedge and tree.

 

When he discovers Cassia gone, Ansell's heart sinks. The thought that the woman he loves so fiercely may be out on the road and in mortal peril tears at his heart. Although the weather is no longer fit for man nor beast, he will not let her perish, or miss sharing precious time together at Christmas—which will be the best treasure of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine Bone
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9780998657363

Katherine Bone

Bestselling Historical romance author Katherine Bone has been passionate about history since she had the opportunity to travel to various Army bases, castles, battlegrounds, and cathedrals as an Army brat turned officer's wife. Now she lives in the south where she writes about rogues, rebels and rakes, aka pirates, lords, captains, duty, honor, and country and the happily-ever-afters every alpha male and damsel deserve. Katherine would love to hear from you, dear readers! Send her an signal flag at: [e-mail] or join her on deck via Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Katherine-Bones-Official-Fan-Page/134578253291785, or Twitter at https://twitter.com/#!/katherinelbone. If you'd like to hear about Katherine's adventures and new book offers, join her newsletter here: http://www.katherinebone.com/contact/.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Gravelines, France, December 1812

Raise the ensign, Captain Ansell Ransome ordered. The signal flag was their only hope of alerting those stationed at the wharf where the Siren needed permission to dock.

Aye, Cap’n, Slade, his first mate, responded.

The enemy port came into view, a daunting fortress sheathed by water and fog set in an unstable region along the coast of France. Gravelines. Ansell sucked in a breath, restrained and careful not to commit mistakes, the type that killed a man. Though he’d made this voyage multiple times over the past four years—smuggling and bartering for prisoners of war and trading contraband—he knew not to tempt Fate.

As did the men who made up the Siren’s crew.

He surveyed the conditions, repugnance washing over him. The French were a surly lot, and the war wasn’t going in Napoleon’s favor. It was only a matter of time before the emperor surrendered, found himself captured, and—or—permanently exiled, if not bloody well slain. So one never knew what enemy they’d face one day to the next. What did they say about cornered rats?

He nodded to his first mate.

Slade motioned to the bosun.

Tucker, the bosun, signaled the lookout.

Heva! Chellew, the lookout, shrieked from the bow.

Heva! a deep baritone voice echoed back from shore.

No going back now.

Take her in, Slade, Ansell commanded.

Within a matter of seconds, a long line of men abandoned the confines of the trees, their muskets trained on the Siren and primed to strike.

Ansell steadied his nerves, carefully flexing his fingers, and keeping his right hand away from his pistol. Sailing into port was but one of the many tests they’d face. Prisoner exchanges were never accomplished without risk. Smugglers like himself had died because of miscommunication and trigger-happy guards who frowned upon free trade. And he had no way of knowing if the ladder of command had changed again in the months he’d been gone.

Blind faith fueled him, the numerous souls languishing behind bars, an image he could not, would not forget. No matter the danger, prisoner exchanges were noble and just and worth the perilous journey and expense of bodily harm.

Moving slowly, he gestured to the cargo hold. Let our passengers out.

Aye, aye, sir. Slade moved to the secret passage, opened the hatch, and ordered the two Frenchmen to join him on deck. One was an officer, the other an aide-de-camp. When they emerged, he led them slowly to the bow, making sure the enemy spotted which uniform they wore—white with blue facings and red epaulettes.

"I thank you, mon capitaine. Lieutenant Armand du Piager reached out to shake Ansell’s hand, the well-mannered action a glimpse into the man’s true character. I will see to it that you are well compensated."

Desperate men could not be trusted. Ansell knew this well. He grinned to alleviate the tension flowing through him, then slanted his gaze toward shore. I’m only wanting to make a trade.

But we owe you our lives, the other Dragoon responded, his thick French accent laying bare the debt they owed. We will do whatever we can to aid your cause. Only, do not stop helping our people, I beg.

As long as there be a profit, I’ll continue me voyages. Aye, he was determined to help as many Britons as possible, though, inevitably, his wife might curtail his activities.

Deprivations in the kingdom made it imperative that he continue this line of work, and the immediacy of piracy helped his cause. And yet, no one could ever know why he traded at Gravelines. He’d made a vow to his cousin, Emma Clavering, that he would bring her beloved betrothed home, especially after two eyewitnesses rescued last Christmas had sworn they’d seen Captain Sir Christmas Astley-Milne during their internment.

If Emma’s betrothed still lived—and Ansell felt sure of it deep in his bones—he’d bring the man home, no matter the price, to himself or his crew. He was that devoted to his cousin, and she to him.

Their escape would come with a substantial cost, however. It was only a matter of time before Ansell discovered what that tariff demanded.

Alarm charged every muscle in his body. The air fractured with the potential of success and danger, the thrill of it, the anticipation, fueling suspense and need as several high-ranking officers approached the dock to meet them. This was his nineteenth foray into enemy territory. His primary objective would lead to the greatest satisfaction he could muster—the return of Emma’s beloved.

But therein lay the problem. He was more invested than ever, plotting and lying-in-wait to rescue Sir Christmas from the enemy’s clutches when no pirate could afford emotional attachment. Feelings were not profitable in this line of business. They were a hindrance to his cause.

"We are grateful for your help, capitaine, a man he’d never met before said after they disembarked. But, of course, you have dealt with Colonel Lejeune and not with me. Will you congratulate me on my new role as commander of the 19 th Light Infantry? Ansell observed the man with indifference. I am Colonel Étienne Martin de Beurnonville, he said, puffing his chest to make himself look as big as the men standing around him. It is an honor to meet a man with no loyalties, a man ruled by greed who thinks nothing of keeping us supplied with British news."

Ansell bowed his head, plagued with fabricated guilt. I do not regret furthering Napoleon’s cause. All part of the ploy. The government used a small printing press to filter erroneous gossip and dispatches for the villagers to spread across the region to further break down enemy loyalties. That dastardly trick alone could trigger his elimination. But I am eager to be on me way before the weather changes.

Understandable. One never knows what it will do this time of year, Captain du Piager said as he stepped forward and introduced himself and his aide-de-camp to Gravelines’s new commanding officer.

The village of Gravelines stood behind the trees and farther still, the citadel where Sir Christmas was imprisoned. Given a provisional break from scrutiny, Ansell’s gaze strayed from du Piager and the Colonel to the wharf. He calculated the number of weapons pointed in their direction, distrusting this new colonel.

Freedom. Close, and yet so far.

There were too many unknowns to his liking. Their vulnerability in port, the change of command, the not knowing if Sir Christmas would be strong enough to evade the guards. Would Colonel de Beurnonville honor his predecessor’s previous agreement, allowing Ansell to load the cargo he’d come for to smuggle back to England? Or would he be double-crossed, punished, and hanged from a gibbet?

That risk always loomed over him.

Whatever the case, there was no going back. No reason to tack and run. Ansell had developed a healthy but tricky relationship with the dock workers, lending aid to many who searched for captured relatives forcibly taken to England. He’d earned trust by being dependable and fair, transporting the same French prisoners of war back to France. He’d earned respect by delivering much-needed contraband and, in return, was granted leave to transfer British prisoners of war and French goods when obtainable. The arrangement benefited everyone, from war-afflicted Frenchmen to British captives no longer clinging to hope and starving islanders back home.

Times were changing, however. Every passage across the Channel was a gamble now that more veterans were returning home and being hired by the Customs Office. Ansell and his crew had to stay the course to tell the tale. People mattered more than riches, his own safety, or greed and profit.

He stood aside, allowing du Piager and his companion to pass.

"Mon dieu, my friend," du Piager said.

Emotion tugged at Ansell’s heart as he nodded. Watching the two healthy men he’d liberated walk determinedly away beside their new commander, he wondered what condition Sir Christmas would be in. French prisoners were treated much more fairly in England than the British were in France.

Slade, he shouted over his shoulder.

His first mate appeared instantly beside him. Aye, sir?

See to it that our cargo gets loaded and quickly. I want to make way as soon as possible.

Aye, aye, sir. Slade boarded the Siren, repeating Ansell’s order.

The minutes ticked by, and the sky darkened, twilight giving way to night. The hair rose on the back of Ansell’s neck. For this moment, he’d frittered away years, studying maps, charting courses, investing in ruses, and helping more than seventy kingdom families in the interim.

He straightened his back as torches lit the dock. The wood line was barely visible now, and he had no idea what to expect. He’d made a deal with one of the guards on a previous trip. Sir Christmas was to be released and delivered to the dock before the Siren weighed anchor.

He despised waiting, but patience was one virtue his wife Cassia had tried to improve in him. To her credit, he had persevered. Still, the long wait gave the enemy time to reconsider, alter course, and—or—arrest the lot of them. The French couldn’t be trusted. Panic was to be avoided at all costs. It arrested intelligence and led to self-destruction. And yet, his heart beat savagely, a death knell he couldn’t ignore, as he waited with bated breath for any sight of Sir Christmas.

Years of searching, waiting, and hunting were at an end. Were they not? Now was not the time to overreact.

About fifteen minutes later, with the contraband stowed aboard and the crew on point, someone spotted movement by the trees. The armed welcome party had dissolved into the fog as a topman signaled to Ansell, excitedly motioning to two crewmen positioned midway up the mizzen, who quickly uncovered their lanterns and shuddered the light, repeating the process again and again.

Code for hurry.

His attention snapped back to the woods. There, two men emerged from the trees. He assumed it was Sir Christmas and the guard assigned to procure his release. But something had gone wrong as one of the men half-dragged the other.

He bolted into action. Get them. Quickly! he ordered. Prepare to sail. As luck would have it, the tide was going out, and the wind was brisk.

Snowflakes began to fall as the moor lines trussing the ship to the dock were cut loose. The sails fell into place and flapped in the breeze, the air sizzling with tension as one of the escaping men collapsed to the ground, stealing Ansell’s breath.

He’s wounded, came a cry of exasperation. Help us!

The response was instantaneous. Several of the crew darted onto French soil and launched the men over their shoulders, rushing back to the ship. Within minutes, the two roughly treated men were safely aboard and guided belowdecks into a hidden compartment.

Dogs broke through the trees, their handlers close behind. A trumpet issued a peal of warning, setting men into motion, but not before the tide began to take them out of reach. The ship swayed, vaulting over swells and dipping into troughs as they cleared the bay. His crew worked the oars in a steady rhythm, creating the swiftest passage he’d ever seen across the twenty-plus mile distance between England and France.

He interrupted his regular sailing practices and navigated the thwarts. Lifting the hatch, he sank to his knees. Be one of ye, Sir Christmas?

Not me. Him. The healthier one gave a vigorous shake of his head. He’s Captain Sir Christmas Astley-Milne.

Are ye Boudreaux?

No. Boudreaux died during our escape. I am a surgeon. Lieutenant Daniel Barrett at your service.

"Welcome aboard the Siren, Lieutenant." Two prisoners for the price of one, a better