The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

the sea. The flash of pale cloth scampered over and around the boxes lashed to the deck.

“Thea’s sabotaging the rigging!” Charles shouted. “Prepare the dory!”

Men leapt to lower the small boat. Charles ordered the helmsman to hold their position as best he could, and along with the rowing crew, Marcus and Charles jumped aboard the dory. Mr. Lythgoe followed, but the admiral stayed aboard the cutter.

“No, milady. You’re to stay here.” The admiral took her arm. “Let them do their work.”

Please, God, keep them all safe. Sophie fought her fear and her nausea. Bring them back to me.

Charles felt no satisfaction that their trap had worked. He could only think about getting Thea back safe and sound.

The dory bobbed in the surf. At least the tide was running in, taking them toward the Shearwater. “Row, men!” If they could get to the wallowing Shearwater before she hit the shoal, they might be able to keep her from grounding.

Charles moved to starboard, ready to leap aboard the moment they were alongside. A shout rang across the water, and a man charged across the Shearwater’s deck in pursuit of a small drenched figure.

Thea!

She eluded the man chasing her, only to run into the grasp of another of the smugglers coming around a stack of net-covered and lashed crates. Her scream rent the air.

“Faster!”

Marcus had drawn one of his pistols, but he held his fire. The danger of hitting Thea was too great.

Just feet before the two boats made contact, the Shearwater shuddered. A ripping, grinding noise rumbled up. She’d hit the shoal. Her occupants were tossed to the deck. Charles lost sight of Thea as the dory hit the side of the now immobile sloop.

Charles grabbed the gunwale of the Shearwater and scrambled aboard. Marcus was right behind him.

Thea scrabbled on hands and knees toward the stern, with one of the men grabbing at her ankles as he rolled to his feet. “Get back here, you limb of Satan.”

Reverend Dunhill.

The vicar had hold of her for a moment, but she jerked, and her shoe came off in his hand. Charles tackled the preacher, trusting Marcus to handle Grayson. Dunhill writhed, lashing out, but Charles settled the preacher’s aggression with a well-timed elbow to the jaw. The reverend staggered into the arms of one of the cutter crew, dazed and bleeding.

Marcus held Grayson by the arm, a pistol hard against his temple. The Shearwater groaned, taking each broadside wave harder than the next. The sails slapped and rippled, sagging and flying with the gusts.

More of the cutter crew climbed over the side.

“Thea?” Charles shouted. “Where are you?”

She bounced out from behind a shifting stack of cargo and launched into Charles’s arms, clutching him hard. Her drenched, slight form trembled, whether from cold or fear or both, he didn’t know. Wrapping her in his arms, safe beneath his cloak, he breathed a grateful prayer.

Then he froze. A sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach as a memory of another ship flashed in his mind. “Fan out. Search the ship.”

He would not make the same mistake twice.

The men from the cutter headed toward the bow, staggering and clinging to any handhold they could as waves buffeted the Shearwater. Within minutes they had marched two sodden, downcast men forward.

Will Owens, the solicitor, and Porter McFie, the man who owned the butcher shop in Gateshead Village.

“Where’s Miles?” Thea raised her face from his collarbone. “Those men wanted to throw me overboard, but Miles argued with them, and that man hit him.” She pointed to McFie. “Miles fell down like he was sleeping.” As she spoke, Miles emerged atop the shifting pile of crates, knife in hand, panic in his eyes. Blood ran from a cut on his head, mixing with the rain.

“Get back. Get back or I’ll cut someone!” he shouted.

“Stop!” Charles lowered Thea and pushed her behind him. He drew his pistol, fighting to keep it aimed on the young man as the deck pitched. He flashed back to that terrible instant when the French sailor had raised his sword. “Don’t make me shoot you, Miles.” His finger trembled on the pistol.

Miles hesitated, looking from Charles to the other men. Charles kept his focus on his erstwhile footman.

“You turncoats. Bashing me on the head.” He glared at his coconspirators. “I’ll have your lights and livers.” He bared his teeth, crouching atop the cargo, staggering and adjusting with each heave of the boat.

“Make up your mind, Miles. We have to get off the Shearwater. She’s breaking up in this surf. If you’re coming peacefully, then come. You tried to save Thea, and I won’t forget that.”

For a long moment, Miles didn’t move. The boat groaned, grinding along the shoal. In increments, clinging to the ropes lashing the crates, Miles descended, but a gleam in his eyes raised warning flags in Charles’s mind.

“There’s no way to escape. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t do something even more foolish.”

“My whole life? You know what will happen to me. I’ll be tried, and if I don’t get hung, I’ll be shipped to Botany Bay.” His knife hand shook.

“I’ll do what I can to help you, Miles, but you have to come peacefully.” Charles kept his tone reasonable and kind, but he remained alert, ready to shoot the young man if he so much as twitched in Thea’s direction.

Miles seemed to realize he’d reached the end of his road. The blade lowered.

“Throw it overboard.” Marcus, having turned Grayson over to the crew, stepped forward, pistol in one hand, knife in the other. “Charles, get Thea aboard the dory. I’ll be right behind you. If this young jackanapes doesn’t want to come, he’ll have to take his chances going into the water with a pistol ball in his guts.”

Charles’s brows rose. The bite in Marcus’s tone sounded odd for an aristocrat. His brother-in-law continually surprised him.

Miles pitched his blade into the waves. As it hit the water, the Shearwater creaked and slipped on the shoal, careening