“She said you wouldn’t bring those pages back to her,” Knox yelled.
“That all depended on her keeping her word. Which she didn’t. So she called on you and hoped you’d kill me for her. It’s two against one, Knox. Cotton Malone wants those pages, too. They’ll be of no use to you if he finds them. He works only for God and country.”
“And you’ll be the one to find them?”
“Malone and I have some unfinished business. Once it’s completed, I’ll get what you want.”
“And if I stay?”
“Then you’re going to die. Guaranteed. One of us will get you.”
KNOX WEIGHED HIS OPTIONS. HE WAS ALONE WITH TWO PURSUERS. One appeared to be friendly, the other unknown.
Who was this Cotton Malone?
And the crew.
There’d been casualties.
Not something that happened often.
It had been years since they’d lost anyone. He’d come here because it seemed the only play. Hale was happy, the other three captains were content. Carbonell had provided the information, seemingly wanting Knox to be here.
But enough was enough.
He was risking his life for nothing.
“I’m leaving,” he called out.
MALONE CROUCHED LOW AND STUDIED THE BLACKNESS. THE nearest light source was miles away on a neighboring island. The surf continued its relentless attack on the rock below. Wyatt was out there, waiting. It was impossible to go after the third man. Knox. Wyatt would be ready for that.
Just sit tight.
“Okay, Malone,” Wyatt called out. “Obviously you’re privy to the same information I am. One of us is going to win this fight. Time to find out who.”
SIXTY-FOUR
held the wheel tight, keeping the bow pointed northeast. He was running at the edge of the sand that extended from shore, a narrow gap that required a tight course. Close-reefed topsails billowed outward, driving them along.
A ship appeared.
On a parallel course, its masts thrusting dangerously close to his sails. What was it doing here? They’d dodged it for most of the day, and he’d hoped the storm would be his shield.
He sounded the alarm.
The tumult increased as crewmen flooded out from below into the squall. Danger was quickly realized and weapons were burnished, ready for an attack. Men who found their cannons waited for no order and poured the newcomer’s broadside with salvos. He kept the helm steady, proud of his ship, which belonged to the house of Hale, in North Carolina.
It would not be taken or sunk from under him.
A fresh wind tested the rudder.
He fought for control.
Men were swinging across from the other ship, boarding his. Pirates. Like him. And he knew where they came from. The house of Bolton. It, too, of North Carolina. Come for a fight on the open sea, during a squall, when his guard would be down.
Or so they thought.
This kind of attack was foolhardy. It violated every principle under which they lived. But Boltons were fools, and always had been.
“Quentin.”
His name on the wind.
A female voice.
More men appeared on deck, armed with swords. One leaped through the air and landed a few feet away.
A woman.
Strikingly beautiful, her hair blond, skin pale, eyes alight with interest.
She sprang upon him and tore away his grip on the wheel. The ship slipped from its course, and he felt ungoverned motion.
“Quentin. Quentin.”
Hale opened his eyes.
He lay in his bedroom.
A storm raged outside. Rain assaulted the windows, and a howling wind molested the trees.
Now he remembered.
He and Shirley Kaiser had retreated here on the promise of some special garments she’d brought.
And special they had been.
Lavender lace, draping her petite frame, sheer enough to fully distract his attention for a little while. She’d come to his bed and undressed him. After nearly an hour of fun he’d dozed off, satisfied, glad she’d appeared without an invitation. She was just what he’d needed after dealing with the other three captains.
“Quentin.”
He blinked sleep from his eyes and focused on the familiar coffered ceiling of his bedroom, its wood from the hull of an 18th-century sloop that had once plied the Pamlico. He felt the comfort of fine sheets and the firmness of his king-sized mattress. His bed was a four-poster, stout and tall, requiring a stool for ingress and egress. He’d twisted his ankle once years ago when he stepped off too quick.
“Quentin.”
Shirley’s voice.
Of course. She was here, in the bed. Perhaps she was ready for more? That would be okay. He was ready, too.
He rolled over.
She stared at him with an expression not broken by a smile or desire. Instead, the eyes were hard and angry.
Then he saw the gun.
Its barrel only inches from his face.
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS THE RESCUE VEHICLE REMOVED THE wounded burglar. The remaining intruder, the one she’d taken down with a swipe of her gun, remained in custody, using an ice pack to nurse a lump the size of an egg. No identification had been found on either one, and neither was talking.
“Every minute we’re stalled,” Danny Daniels had said, “is another minute Stephanie stays in trouble.”
He stood at the door leading out of the Blue Room.
“I know the symptoms, Mr. President. Caring for someone is hell.”
He seemed to understand. “You and Cotton?”
She nodded. “It’s both good and bad. Like right now. Is he okay? Does he need help? I didn’t have that problem until a few months ago.”
“I’ve been alone a long time,” Daniels said.
His somber tone made clear he regretted every moment.
