Paid to the Pirate by Una Rohr
Chapter 1
Charlotte
“Pirates!” Daniel shouted, rushing through the inn’s door. “A ship’s anchored just inside the bay and the men are coming into town as we speak.”
My stomach dropped and my gasp was echoed in every man, woman, and child stuffing the inn’s many tables. There wasn’t much else to do in our tiny settlement and most evenings villagers gathered for company and gossip, like moths to our torchlights. Mrs. Clayton, the governor’s wife, clutched her pearls. Then, wisely, she unfastened the necklace and slid it into the safety of her ample bosom.
“Is there time to mount a defense?” someone asked.
I held back a near-hysterical snort. What defense could we manage against pirates?
“They’ll be here any minute,” Daniel protested, sounding even more frightened than I felt. “The night was too black and misty to spy the incoming ship until it was too late.”
“Calm down, everyone please, calm down,” Mr. Clayton said, raising his voice above the chatter. Our little settlement was barely a proper enough town to have elected a governor, but Mr. George Clayton served as our de facto leader since long before I’d arrived.
“They’re not here to attack or they would have done so already. They’re simply here to-”
“Extract payment,” Mrs. Penningham harrumphed.
George grimaced both at her interruption and its certainty. “We’ll have to decide what kind of town we aim to be, one who pays tribute to these pirates or-”
“A town who ceases to exist,” Mrs. Penningham interrupted again. This time, Mr. Penningham jabbed her in the ribs. She pursed her lips but didn’t wipe the hard look from her face.
“Which black heart is it? Did you get a look at the colors?” Someone’s panicked shout rose above the rest and everyone turned to Daniel, holding their breath.
He slid one hand along his sandy hair, smoothing it back into the ribbon tied low at the nape of his neck. “Couldn’t tell in the dark. There’s no moon and the skies are cloudy.”
Grumbles and groans came from the crowded inn, but Mr. Clayton held up his hands. “Leave the boy alone, he did his watch as best he could.”
An older lady in the corner piped up, “Just give ’em whatever they want and be done with it!”
That’s the problem, I thought. Once we gave it to them, we’d never be done. If the pirates came demanding tribute, they’d extract regular payment henceforth, in exchange for “protection.” Our settlement would bear a mark, a symbol of such safeguarding and a warning for other pirates to leave us alone. In theory.
I didn’t see how we had a choice. Mr. Clayton hesitated because the crown despised such arrangements. It meant monies potentially lining their coffers would be redirected into pirate hands, funding and encouraging the practice. But while our overseers in London reclined on their pillowed sofas eating candied delights safely across the sea, we faced monsters with daggers held to our throats.
“They’re here!” a young girl shouted, peering outside the curtained window.
The room sucked in another collective breath and everyone stilled. Mrs. Penningham suddenly appeared by my side.
“Get to the kitchens,” she whispered. “They’ll be wanting ale and lots of it. Serve it ’round and don’t stop lest I give you the signal.”
I nodded, hurrying out to do as I was bid and secretly grateful. I didn’t want to admit it, but the notion of pirates filling our inn made a terrible shiver run down my spine.
#
“How thoughtful of you all to gather for our visit,” I heard a man announce to the room. He spoke with a more eloquent tone than I expected from such a band of scoundrels. “May I present to you our captain, Colton Pearce,” he said, with relish.
Colton Pearce. My heart thudded and I gulped. This is bad.
Colt the Cruel, he was called, or just Captain Colt. Why had one of the nastiest pirates plaguing the coast turned to tributing? Wasn’t his method slash-and-dash?
That answered the question as to what Mr. Clayton would decree. No one feared the disappointment of the crown more than Colt’s blade.
We’d pay. Whatever he asked.
I heard shuffling and the scrape of wooden chair legs as the pirates took seats, evacuating jumpy patrons previously occupying those same chairs, I assumed. As the men sauntered into the room, the air changed. Inhaling, it was almost as if the scent of flint and danger accompanied the sweat and sea air clinging to their bodies.
Buried deep beneath my terror, something familiar mingled with the odor.
“What is it you want?” I heard our governor ask, and I admired that he kept fear from infecting his voice.
“We seek a business relationship, a partnership,” the pirate-emissary replied. I couldn’t see beyond the kitchen door, but so far, his was the only voice speaking on behalf of the crew. Elected, I supposed, because he bore such an elegant manner of speech.
“I’m sure we can come to a friendly arrangement. We don’t want to have to turn… unfriendly. At the sun’s rise,” he specified, in warning. “Our ship is anchored not a stone’s throw from your inn. You haven’t the time to call for reinforcements from Charles Town.”
Charles Town, to our north, was the nearest proper village. With its wall of protection and dense numbers deterring any attacks, it wasn’t surprising Colt turned his eye on our sleepy settlement instead.
Quietly, I pushed the kitchen door ajar and peeked into our crowded inn. Immediately, I found the man addressing our townsfolk -- he stood tall in the center of the stuffy room, whilst most everyone else sunk into a chair or slouched along the walls, as if wanting to disappear. I caught Molly, a curious girl of four or five, reaching for the shiny handle of one bald-headed pirate’s gun, strapped to his waist. Flashing a crooked grin, he leaned over to allow her exploration, but Mrs. Bestly noticed her daughter’s attention and quickly yanked the girl back.
Craning my neck, I scanned the room for the infamous pirate, but when I found the imposing figure to whom everyone cast sly glances, he was seated facing the opposite direction. I only caught a head of dark hair, partially obscured by a lanky member of his crew standing behind him.
“So what you’re saying is, if we pay you what you want tonight, you won’t attack tomorrow.”
I bit back a smirk at Mrs. Penningham’s blunt tongue.
Can’t put it off any longer, I thought.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the kitchen door wide and slid out into the main room of the inn, now crammed with vile pirates alongside our peaceful townsfolk.
“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” Mr. Clayton grumbled. “Gold, I’m assuming, though you’ll find little of it here. We’ve had good years of indigo and tobacco crops recently…”
Nervous, I tuned out Mr. Clayton as I began serving flagons and tankards of ale haphazardly, ensuring the room had enough to go around, regardless of whose glass was empty or who’d ordered more. Spirits could raise tempers or soothe them, depending, but I wouldn’t question Mrs. Penningham’s orders.
No one paid me any mind as Mr. Clayton and the pirate emissary held the room. Rounding a particularly crowded table, I caught sight of Colton from the corner of my eye, though I still couldn’t see him fully. He’s a towering beast of a man. Just looking at him made my stomach flip, and that wasn’t all. Inside my chest, something tightened.
Run, said a voice in my head. Run away from this dangerous stranger.
His hair reached just to his ears -- not long enough to tie back, yet not short enough to stay out of his way, as if he’d neglected to cut it in a timely manner or couldn’t decide whether to keep it long or short. Colt tossed his head, once, flinging back the hair from his eyes, his face.
Coming to the other side of the small table, I stood directly, unwillingly, in the pirate captain’s line of vision. Already in possession of a tankard of ale he must have swiped from another patron, he lifted it to his lips, smiling and drinking deeply. But when he saw me, our gazes locked.
Colton’s eyes widened and he froze. He had the momentary appearance of someone who’d seen a ghost, but it was there and quickly gone. In that moment, it was as if time stood still and the rest of the room faded away. His cold, near-black eyes banished any hope of Colton being a “gentleman pirate,” as some were called who extorted tribute, rather than attacking. I began to sweat in a very unladylike manner.
Run, repeated the voice in my head. You should have run when you had the chance. Following their captain’s lead, I felt the eyes of the crew upon me and thought I heard someone swear beneath their breath, “well, I’ll be…”
Finally, Colton moved, striking out a hand to silence the increasing whispers of his crew. Slowly, he placed his tankard back on the wooden table. Still, he didn’t stop staring.
I studied his face -- long, but not overly so. His features were sharp, his eyes hooded and dark. To be fair, it was a pleasing face. His full lips turned just a hair upwards, as if they resisted a smirk. Arguably, he could be called quite handsome.
That cruel gaze seemed to pin me to the floor, but Colt’s resumption of movement worked as a strange release on some of my own limbs, as if they mimicked his. My hand flew to my collarbone, rubbing in a familiar, anxious habit.
“Change of terms,” Colton said, speaking for the first time. Those pitiless eyes bore into mine. “I want the girl.”