Page 89 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Constantin shrugged. “Pirates are hanged, madam. Hostages are not.”

Maggie blinked rapidly, fighting the tears which threatened to overtake her.

“Then might I beseech you, sir, if it’s not too late, to show mercy on the younger man—Bash? Bastian? He is all that is good, truly. He saved my life when I so recklessly stowed away in search of… adventure. He’s kind and gentle though he’s known a life filled with suffering. He was as much a prisoner as I, please. I beg you, and if you cannot,” she went on, giving him no time to answer, because she was too afraid of what the answer might be. “If you cannot show him mercy, then please have mercy on me and allow me to hang alongside him because, you see, I love him. I love him, sir, and I cannot fathom the endless torture of living out the rest of my days without him.”

Through her tears she managed to discern his sympathetic smile. “Pirates are hanged,” he said again. “Hostages are not.”

Then, with another curt bow, he took his leave, and Maggie collapsed into her pillows and wept. She wept until she was flushed with fever, blood pounding in her temples. Ryna quite despaired of ever getting her to stop.

She begged to be taken to the gaol to see him, but she didn’t have the strength, and when at last Ryna coaxed her into sipping some tea, Maggie drifted off into another fitful sleep.

If such a thing were possible, the sun shone brighter and even more cheerfully a week later when Ryna walked Maggie to the port where she would board HMS Pursuit to sail away from Jamaica leaving everything behind.

She had gone out walking the day before, but the gaol was empty except for a drunk sailor sleeping off a rowdy night.

“If you’re here for the hanging, it were last week, miss,” a small boy informed her as she stared up at the gallows.

She’d thrown up then, right there in the street, much to the dismay of the little boy, who wrinkled his nose, stepping back in disgust.

So, she could barely look Constantin in the eye when she was escorted to his quarters.

“Are you well?” he asked with warm concern, directing her to a padded wooden chair.

Maggie nodded. Though her eyes pricked, she didn’t cry. She was all dried out, as Ryna would say.

“I believe this is yours,” Constantin said, sitting down at his desk and pushing an intricately carved chest forward. It was small, about a foot long and half as wide and deep. A fancy brass key protruded from an equally ornate brass lock.

“You’re mistaken.” Maggie shook her head. While lovely, the chest was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

“I’m certain I am not,” Constantin said, turning the key and opening the chest to reveal dozens—perhaps hundreds—of shiny gold coins. Mad MacLeod’s lost treasure.

She looked up at Constantin in confusion.

“The chest is new, I’ll grant you,” he said, with a flourish as though waving away her questions. “But the gold was in your possession when I intervened on your behalf.”

“But…” Hadn’t he been trying to recover this very gold for more than two decades?

“I understand, you must be concerned about the provenance of such wealth, and the belief by some that it was once stolen cargo.”

“Isn’t it?” Maggie breathed.

“No, madam. It cannot be. It’s true the Annabel Grace, of which I was once the guardian, was robbed some twenty-two years ago. However, that gold was written off by the Crown many years hence, and reparations paid to the baron for my failure. As far as the Crown is concerned, it no longer exists. Therefore, this cannot be that gold. So it must be yours. Or else funds left by Bastian’s auntie for his keeping.”

Maggie stared at the chest of gold—more wealth than she’d ever seen in her entire life, but at what cost?

“So much coin,” she whispered. “Could it have been used to buy a man’s life, I wonder?”

“No, madam. Such a thing sounds an awful lot like bribery. You must never repeat it,” he said, eyeing her seriously until she shook her head. “Good.”

He snapped the chest closed, turned the key, and then handed it to her. “For safe keeping. Come. I’ll show you to your quarters. You must be very tired.”

Constantin carried the chest for her and offered Maggie his arm. As he led her through the ship, she tried hard to block out memories of her first days aboard another ship, of the way Bash’s hair curled at the nape of his neck, and the slight swagger in his step. Finally, they reached a cabin with an actual door.

“Small and cramped, I’m afraid. But it has a nice view.”

She nodded her thanks and opened the door to go inside.

A man turned from the window to face her, and her jaw dropped, mirroring his stunned expression.