Page 87 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

It was a very shallow consolation. They’d surely end up in different places for the duration of eternity because she was a kind, loving, free-spirited woman who deserved every good thing, and he was pirate scum unfit to clean her boots.

In a nearby cell, Mad raised a ruckus, by turns cursing and moaning, then snoring until he started all over again.

There was no sign of his darling Maggie, no weeping or murmured prayers, none of the soft sighs she made in her sleep. Bash supposed she must be gone, and he wept for her—silently at first, until something like a sob tore from his throat when he drew a wheezing breath.

“At least we go together, eh, boy? Father and son, at last,” Mad called out to him.

Bash settled himself and steadied his voice to answer coldly. “You were never my father, Cornelius MacLeod.”

“Ungrateful fucking wretch,” Mad muttered, but he made no further attempts at conversation and soon went back to snoring loud enough to rattle the iron bars on the door.

Finding a corner that smelled the least like human excrement, Bash curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth as he waited for morning.

When he finally dozed, he dreamt only of her. Free of blood and dressed in breeches, she appeared the way he liked her best—sun-dappled and smiling as the ocean breeze tousled her short, chestnut hair and Caribbean waves sparkled in her azure eyes. She kissed his cheek, and he grew hard with longing, but on reaching out, her hand slipped through his grasp, and she was gone—his cheeky, wild girl from the Scottish Highlands.

He only wished he’d told her in words how much he loved her. He only wished his cowardice had not prevailed.

Chapter Twenty-One

Blinding white light surrounded Maggie, awakening her to the throbbing ache behind her eyes. A menagerie of strange birds sang relentlessly joyful songs, which should have made her soar in dips and swirls like her own dear Kes, but her heart was much too heavy to fly.

When she finally wrenched her eyes open, she found herself on a cot as soft as a cloud, in a bright, cheery bungalow with windows drawn open to an ocean breeze and lapping tide. It was the kind of peace that would have been her dream two months ago. Instead, tears dampened her eyes before she could even remember why she was grieving.

Bash.

He’d been arrested by Captain Constantin, would be hanged at the Crown’s convenience. Had it happened already? Was she too late to try and stop it or even say goodbye?

And why wasn’t she with him? Mad had accused her of piracy as she clutched the stolen gold to her chest. But then Bash had stepped forward, taken the blame, sacrificed himself and all he’d overcome—for her.

A door opened, and a women entered, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, her eyes warm but serious, like the picture of Bash’s mother.

Maggie reached for the locket at her throat and found instead a bandage and now the tears streamed down her cheeks and into her ears.

“Dry your eyes,” the woman said. “Best not waste a drop of water left in you. Drink this.”

The woman helped Maggie sit up against lovely plump pillows, and then handed her a cup filled with mild-looking tea, but Maggie’s hand tremored, rattling the china cup against its saucer, so the woman reached out gently and guided it to Maggie’s parched lips.

“Good.” She nodded. “Finish that, and I’ll brew some more. You’ve been terribly fevered. I’ve never seen a body so dried out as you.”

“I’ve been worse,” Maggie whispered. At least this time she could still cry.

“That’s a point of pride, is it?” the woman asked, and Maggie shook her head.

“If you keep the tea down, I’ll bring you some broth later.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a name?”

“Maggie.”

“Ryna,” the woman said. “Don’t you fret, Maggie, I’ll take good care of you until the ship’s ready to sail.”

“Ship?” Maggie asked. Was it a prison ship, then? Would she be indentured in Virginia like Langley’s brother?

“To England,” Ryna explained. “You’re going home.”

More tears burned her eyes, blurring the image of her kind caretaker. “I can’t go back,” she whispered, scrunching her face. Not while Bash’s fate was unknown, not when he might be…