A | B | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14A | 14B | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

---

PART II

---

MAY, 1780
TAVENDISH GRANGE
NORTHUMBERLAND, ENGLAND

“’AND ME ’AT SACK o’ nails ’ere, will ye, Cap’n?”

Elliott paused on his route to snatch the small bag off the nailsmith’s bar and toss it up to his crewman, who straddled the truss of a half-raised cottage. Elliott continued to walk until he could drop to the ground alongside a few other men who had stopped to rest. He leaned back on one elbow and wiped his sweaty face on his shirttail.

His back and arms ached, and it was only nuncheon.

He looked around at this newest section of Raxham where his men had decided to build their homes. By summer, all the cottages would not only be finished, but there would be green grass, flowers, gardens aplenty, and, with some hope and luck, a bevy of women wed to the crew who meant to settle down.

But right now, the tracts were one big bog of mud, with four nearly finished cottages, the skeletons of four more being raised, and the stones set for the corners of the last six.

Heat from the nailsmith’s forge took the chill out of the air, which would be quite welcome at the moment, as one man after another found a place to sit and eat the food that would soon arrive from Tavendish Manor’s kitchen. Soon enough the clanging of the hammer-on-anvil ceased. Gradually the last of the workers joined.

“Cap’n, there’s a gent out a ways yellin’ atchye.”

Elliott looked over his shoulder in the direction his man was pointing and saw in the distance three riders coming across the moor from the west. The one in the middle was waving and shouting.

“Tavendish!” Elliott would not have been able to hear it had he not been listening for it, the men were so far away. “Is that you, boy?”

Elliott stood and took off at an easy lope. He chuckled to himself when he recognized the Duke of Croftwood. It took only a moment before the four of them met and Croftwood dismounted.

“Your Grace,” Elliott said politely and made to bow, but grunted when he found himself pulled into an embrace.

“Good to see you, boy!” the older man said whilst pounding Elliott on the back. He released him abruptly and turned him around to see the duke’s companions.

“I should have Hugh arrest you both for trespassing whilst ugly,” Elliott drawled. “Good to see you, Arthur, Douglas. Walk with me, will you.”

The heir to the Croftwood dukedom was older than Elliott’s older brother, but the duke’s second son, Douglas, was Elliott’s age. They had gone to Eton and then Oxford together, and had served together on the Ocean.

Though the future duke laughed and jested with his father and Elliott, Douglas spoke little, smiled vacantly, and stared blankly off into the horizon.

Surely, not every officer had weathered service under Commander Lord Kitteridge as well as Elliott and Marquess Rathbone, and he itched to be able to tell Douglas of Kitteridge’s demise. But it would put Elliott in jeopardy for no reason: from the looks of him, Douglas would neither remember Kitteridge nor care.

Once they had arrived at the edge of the new section of Raxham Village, they stopped. Croftwood looked around with seeming approval, then peppered Elliott with questions as to his plans. He then complimented him on the fine work he had done putting the estate back together after his trial, his industriousness at working with his men, and his success at ridding the coastline of smugglers.

“What brings you halfway ’cross England, Your Grace?” Elliott asked during a lull in the conversation. “I cannot think ’twas to see me wield a hammer.”

Croftwood hesitated. “Many things, in fact,” he said, suddenly sober. “I thought to make the acquaintance of the new earl. Your father was a good friend of mine, a skilled statesman. A great orator. He is missed.”

Skilled statesman? Great orator?

Elliott was astounded, as he had never known this about his father. “Ah, thank you, Your Grace,” he muttered, suddenly ashamed and newly bereaved at once.

The duke took a deep breath. “Secondly, when do you expect to go back to sea?”

“Why, I don’t,” Elliott said, surprised. He thought that had been evident. “Unless I have reason to suspect the return of contraband to my shores, I have no reason to. Was there something you wanted?”

Croftwood took a ragged breath and looked to the north, where a sliver of water glinted on the horizon. “Do you know my youngest son, Adrian?”

How in God’s name had Elliott thought he could avoid this topic? “No, Your Grace. Why?”

“I … fear he is lost at sea. I had hoped you— I mean to say, I had hoped for news.”

Fury had taken over the Carnivale one year into Adrian’s service aboard it, which meant he must have posted his last missive—

“How long has he been gone then?”

“Five years. He wrote from Italy while on his Grand Tour to inform me of his unwillingness to come home, and then … ” He stepped a bit closer to Elliott and leaned in. His voice was almost too low for even Elliott to hear. “I was hoping you had another cruise planned, for I would have counted myself in your great debt if you should go farther afield and find him, bring him home to me.”

Hell’s bells. Yet another man whose soul he could not put to rest, in the same family yet. Elliott sighed, unable to determine which questions to ask that would at once express his sympathy yet conceal his knowledge.

“Your Grace,” Elliott murmured after a moment’s thought, “Lord Rathbone has spent twenty years looking for his daughter.”

The man seemed to shrink before Elliott’s eyes. “Of course, you’re right, Tavendish.” Then, with forced cheer, the duke said, “But enough about that! Where is your lovely sister? She holds the primary purpose for my visit.”

That didn’t surprise him, and he glanced at the sun. “I believe Lucy should still be in the library at the manor.”

“Not that one. The young one, Lady Sophie. She wrote me her black Andalusian was about to foal and invited us to witness the blessed event. Of course, she threatened to invite the rest of England to bid on the beast if I did not immediately come up to scratch, so here I am.”

Elliott snorted. “It appears nearly every woman in my family has some measure of business dealings.”

He laughed. “And yet the earl himself is laboring like a peasant.”

“’Tis all my womenfolk deem me capable of,” Elliott said wryly.

After pleasantries were exchanged, the three Croftwoods were on their way to the manor. Elliott stood and watched them go, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his chin. Reassuring the duke his son was hale, hearty, and happy (much less where) was out of the question. Likewise, Elliott couldn’t forge a missive, for he didn’t know the boy’s handwriting. And though he had every intention of scouring London for Fury (now with the added reason of bidding Adrian write a letter to his father), he could not be assured of his success, particularly since she did not want to be found.

Nay, Elliott would leave the old man to his sorrow. By comparison to decisions he had had to make as captain and commander, allowing a man to think his son lost was a cruelty so tiny as to be invisible.

Once he caught a glimpse of the Tavendish dinner wagon cresting a gentle swell on the moor, he returned to sit with his men. When the Tavendish servants arrived, they hurried and scurried to feed everyone. The tavern owner would be along any time with ale for the lot of them to wash down their—

“Your sandwich, my lord,” said a Tavendish footman gravely. Elliott grimaced and his crew roared with laughter.

The footman’s face reddened with embarrassment and confusion, but Elliott merely said, “Lord Sandwich is a bloody idiot.”

The footman nodded and turned away.

“If he lands in the history books,” Elliott drawled to his crew, holding up his … sandwich, “’twill be for this.”

“Unless he causes the Navy to lose to the Americans!” called someone, which made Elliott roar with the rest of his men.

“Aye, well, we’ll have no more of these abominations, for a certainty,” Elliott muttered around his food. It was good, but lacked the substance to last them through to the end of daylight doing such demanding work, particularly when every last one of them was accustomed to four-hour watches. “Man cannot live on cucumbers and bread alone.”

“Sandwich!” called someone else, causing the lot of them to resume their laughter.

“Footman!” Elliott bellowed when he realized that the servants had finished packing the wagon and were about to depart for the manor. When the man approached, Elliott said, “Inform the kitchens to provide supper three hours hence. I want enough cold roast chicken, beef, cheese, oranges, and apple tarts to feed an army. In the meantime, bring us a firkin of grog.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His men sent up a weary call of approval.

“Ale, m’lord?” came a female voice from above. He looked up, shading his eyes against the glare.

“Aye,” he said gruffly, taking the tankard she offered. “Many thanks.”

“Can I get you somethin’ a mite sweeter?” she purred.

He looked up at her and said nothing for a long moment. She was a comely lass, for a certes. “Aye, this eve,” he finally murmured. “What’s your name?”

Her smile was mercenary. “Margaret. But you can call me Peg, m’lord.”

“Very well. Peg.” She snickered.

He didn’t notice the silence until someone cleared his throat and called, “Say, lads, whatcha think Cap’n Jack’s doin’ now?”

Elliott stiffened. “Begone, m’lovely,” he said under the growing mumbles and grumbles. “Give me your direction, and I’ll peg you ’round midnight.”

“The Rusty Nail, m’lord,” she said, turning away with a lust-filled glance over her shoulder.

Elliott’s crew ate the remainder of their dinner quickly and in silence. The villagers noticed the sudden tension and clearly found it odd, but Elliott didn’t feel a need to explain himself.

But he would have the last word before work resumed. He stood, brushing his hands clean of crumbs and said mildly, “’Twould seem to me the witch did her work well, that you mind my yard for her.”

They said nothing and looked anywhere but at him. There were ways a crew could punish a captain for his misdeeds, but of course, none of those ways had ever affected Elliott.

“Come now, my ensorcelled crew,” he purred with a wicked smile, spreading his arms wide, “who’ll fight for her honor, eh?”

No one volunteered. They simply cast him disgusted glances and went back to work.

• • •

ELLIOTT’S CREW REFUSED to speak to him for the next hour, which he found utterly amusing, if not fascinating.

He taunted, poked, and prodded them all afternoon: mocking their matronly disapproval; addressing them properly as “Miss” and “Mrs.” and “my lady”; comparing them to clucking hens, managing mamas, and wizened spinsters; asking them politely if they would each save him a place on their dance card; and relating their own adventures back to them in hushed, scandalized, gossiping tones.

“Be careful of the sherry!” he called when a half dozen men stopped to dip their cups in the barrel of grog. “It might not be watered enough for your tender sensibilities! You’ll find yourself compromised by some randy sailor do you drink too much!”

Eventually, someone smirked at one of his quips.

Someone else laughed.

In moments, they were all laughing again.

It was a tactic Elliott had used often at sea when spirits were low, and to great effect.

“Grub on the horizon, mates!”

Elliott, currently digging a hole in which to lay the footing of a hearth, stopped and gratefully thrust his shovel into the ground one last time. He bent to wipe his sweating face on his shirt tails and headed toward the food.

Which consisted of—

“SANDWICHES!” Elliott bellowed. He turned on the head footman, whose fear of him was nearly palpable. He might have been amused had he not been so bloody furious. “I made my order excruciatingly clear. Why was it not carried out?”

The footman gulped. “Her ladyship and Mrs. Kerr felt you and your men would be better served with a selection of sandwiches and instructed the cook thusly, my lord.”

“Goddammit!” he snarled, making the footman step back a bit. He turned to his crew. “Put away the tools, then eat and find your evening’s leisures. Report tomorrow morning at eight bells.”

With that, he mounted his horse and set off at a gallop, making the three miles to the manor in a few minutes. He nearly leapt off the horse and stormed up the steps, shoving the front doors open with a crash.

“COUNTESS TAVENDISH!” he thundered. “MISTRESS KERR!”

“In the dining room, my lord,” intoned the butler.

Servants scrambled out of his way as he strode through the house to the dining room to see his mother, his three sisters, his brother-in-law, and three adolescents staring at him as if he had finally gone mad.

The Croftwoods were, mercifully, absent.

He pointed at his mother, then Lucy. “You two. In the library. Now.”

Hugh arose, even though the women stayed frozen. “See here, Raxham—”

Elliott’s head snapped to him. “If your wife thinks to command like a man, she can damn well learn how to take orders from her superior officer like a man.”

Hugh stiffened and his warning growl was not an idle threat. “Raxham.”

But Elliott simply stepped to him until they were chest to chest and nose to nose. “Tavendish, if you please, do you insist on pressing me.”

“Eli, please,” said his mother. “You’re frightening the children.”

He then looked at the table, taking in varying expressions from fright to glee. “Dismissed!”

They scrambled.

So did Camille and Sophie.

Once the dining room doors had slammed closed, he looked at his brother-in-law and magistrate. “Sit. Down.”

The man stood his ground for several seconds, but finally, slowly, lowered himself into his chair.

Elliott stared at first his mother, then Lucy, then Hugh, vaguely satisfied by their total shock. He planted his palms on the table and leaned heavily toward the women. “You had better never do that again.”

His mother gathered herself into the haughty countess she had perfected over many years. “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”

“I gave the kitchens a specific order that you and—” Here he swung his glare at his sister. “—Lucy countermanded. Not only did you countermand an earl, you countermanded a fleet commander in front of his crew via a servant!”

He felt, rather than saw, Hugh’s start. “Lucy,” he said smoothly. “Is that true?”

Her hands trembled slightly, but her mouth tightened and her ice blue eyes narrowed. “Your order was wasteful,” she said as calmly as she could.

“There is a nation’s treasury of gold ’neath our feet, Lucy,” he hissed. “There is no such thing as waste on this estate anymore.”

She hopped up and leaned over the table. “And that is something Flip would say! I have not rebuilt this estate by allowing such waste. You would drive us to ruin because it seems endless now? What about the future?”

Elliott’s fury mounted. “Do not make the mistake of comparing me to Flip, Lucy. Flip did not contribute one goddamned thing to this estate!” The countess gasped at Elliott’s blasphemy, but he had been at sea too long to care. “Further, you will cease counting every grain of wheat ground in our kitchens. But most importantly of all, do not ever countermand my orders again.”

“Or what?” she snapped.

“Or I will strip you of your duties and bid you find your own residence in the village.”

Her face paled under her golden tan and mouth dropped open. It was the most humiliating thing he could do to her, and she carefully retreated back into her chair.

“And what will you threaten me with, dear Son?”

He looked at his mother, as pale as Lucy, her hands trembling, but maintaining her regal dignity. “I will take over the books and banish you to the morning room to practice your watercolors, embroidery, and fortepiano for the rest of your life.” Her jaw clenched, but she held his stare for many seconds until her eyelashes fluttered downward.

Elliott took a glimpse at Hugh, who lounged in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, watching the proceedings with feigned boredom. Ah, so the magistrate was in total agreement with Elliott. He would be, Elliott supposed, as he had his own leadership duties with attendant subordinates. “I suppose you will likely mediate.”

He shrugged. “I sympathize with you, but I tup her.”

Elliott’s mouth tightened, but he did not persist. It was the best he could expect under the circumstances. He looked back at his sister and mother, the latter of whom finally raised moisture-filled eyes to him.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

His lip curled. “Commander Elliott Raxham, my lady. And if that does not suffice, then I am also Earl Tavendish. Remember that.”

“You are not my son.”

“No, I am not. That boy died in the hold of the HMS Ocean fifteen years ago. You will never see him again.”

---

If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.

Pirates!