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“We don’t know that for a fact.”
Courtney’s head came up. “What do you mean?”
“Lexley wasn’t killed on the spot. He and the eight other crewmen I mentioned were shoved into longboats and taken beyond Cornwall to Raven Island.”
“They were left there…alive?”
“Yes.” Oridge held up a restraining palm, trying to temper Courtney’s eagerness. “I must caution you, Miss Johnston, that the odds of surviving Raven Island are very slim. No ships travel there, not with the harsh currents and jagged rocks, so the prospects of a chance rescue are nil. There is also little to eat and nothing in the way of shelter.”
“Then what hope is there?”
“The fact that I’ve arranged a planned rescue. The instant I wrested the details of what had occurred from Armon’s first mate, I sent word to a colleague of mine, who, along with five associates of his, happen to be among the most extraordinary and seasoned navigators in England. I didn’t receive word back from my colleague until just before you arrived, as he lives far west in Cornwall. In any case, he and his men departed for the isle instantly, equipped with longboats, food, and medical supplies. They left from Falmouth, so they’ll probably have reached Raven by now. Let me repeat, the chances of recovering your crew alive are remote but, in their favor, it’s been a rather mild May. And, should Lexley and the others have discovered any source of food—be it nuts, berries, or an unlikely fish or two—there is a slim chance they could be alive. We’ll soon know.”
“Thank you,” Courtney said gratefully. “I pray your efforts, and the efforts of your men, are successful.”
“As do I.” Oridge gestured for her and Slayde to follow him. “Armon’s men are in the rear of the warehouse, under guard. Once you’re finished with them, they’ll be taken away. As for your crew—” Oridge grinned. “I took the liberty of providing them with a few rounds of ale at the local pub. By now, they must be feeling quite renewed.”
“I hope I can make the same claim once I’ve faced Armon’s men,” Courtney muttered, suddenly shaken by the fact that she was about to confront the fiends who’d destroyed her home and killed her father.
“You will.” Tenderly, Slayde enfolded her fingers in his, his warmth a welcome balm to her distress. “I’m right beside you.”
Courtney could actually feel his strength seep through her, renew her faltering courage. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied, love shining in her eyes. “Although I must warn you that once this ordeal is over, I’ll want to join my father’s crew at that pub, where I intend to consume one—perhaps two—full goblets of fortifying brandy.”
Slayde’s smile wrapped itself around her. “My pound notes are ready.”
It was like reliving a nightmare, Courtney thought, scrutinizing the cluster of surly, foul-smelling pirates, meeting the cruel gazes of those who’d boarded the Isobel with Armon. She’d caught mere glimpses of them during those horrible days of her imprisonment; in fact, the only ones she’d viewed up close were the two who’d joined Armon in besieging the quarter-deck. Yet it mattered not. Their bristled faces, filthy hair, and arrogant sneers had engraved themselves in her mind forever—an indelible horror that no amount of retribution could erase. Just looking at them now was enough to make her gut clench and her blood run cold.
And, God help her, to remember.
Slayde was watching her unsteady breathing, her ashen expression. “Oridge, I have nothing to say to these bastards,” he pronounced. “So far as I’m concerned, you can take them away and hang them all now. But let’s allow Miss Johnston to identify those who seized her father and her ship, just to eliminate any chance that the magistrate might be generous in his sentencing. Then, get the scum out of here.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Oridge turned to Courtney. “Miss Johnston, do you recognize any of these thugs?”
With a shudder of revulsion, Courtney nodded. “Those two.” She pointed at the last two men on the left. “They guarded the Isobel’s berth deck. I saw them outside my cabin door whenever Armon opened it. The scarred one in the rear I recognize as well. He preceded Armon onto the Isobel.” Courtney’s heart lurched as her eyes found the most painful memory of all. “The stout one on the right and the grizzled-looking one beside him are the ones who invaded the quarter-deck with Armon.” She felt their icy, unrepentant stares, and a violent surge of hatred shot through her—so intense that, at that moment, she wondered if she, too, were capable of murder. “The latter one held me; the former aided Armon in wresting Papa from the helm,” Her voice broke, and she turned away, literally shaking with rage.
“Oridge?” Slayde questioned instantly.
“That’s more than enough,” Oridge assured them. “We can now add murder to their list of crimes.” He nodded at the guards. “Take them.”
Even with her back to them, Courtney could still see their faces. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the memories flooding through her.
“Let’s adjourn to that pub.” Slayde wrapped a strong arm about her waist, leading her away—from the warehouse and the past. “I could use a drink myself. Then we’ll head back to the inn and rest. Later today, we’ll board the Fortune and have a look around.”
“No,” Courtney whispered, shaking her head. “Although I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I can’t rest until I’ve searched Armon’s ship. I need to go there now.”
Slayde stared down at her for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “Oridge,” he said quietly. “Lead us to where the Fortune is docked. While we’re searching, I’ll fill you in on all the events preceding—and during—Miss Johnston’s and my trip to London.”
An hour later, having scoured Armon’s quarters inch by inch, Courtney had all but given up. For the third time, she delved through his desk, hunting for a journal, glancing up occasionally to see if Slayde was having any better luck searching Armon’s trunk, or Oridge, through his bedding.
Hadn’t the bloody pirate kept any written records at all?
She was about to scream in frustration when, from a kneeling position beneath the berth, Oridge made a triumphant sound of discovery. “This looks promising.”
“What?” She was beside him instantly, holding her breath as he extracted his discovery, then eased back on his haunches to examine it.
It was a single sheet of paper that had been folded into a tiny square, then jammed beneath the leg of Armon’s bed—so carefully placed it was almost invisible.
Courtney gasped as Oridge smoothed out the page and came to his feet. “That’s the Huntley family crest,” she pronounced. “ ’Tis the same stationery on which Aurora and I penned our note to the Times.”
