“I tell you what. I’ll find your father for you. Who shall I tell him is calling?”
“His son, of course.”
Teach’s thin lips drew back over his teeth in a snarl. “I’m not an ignorant fool. Tell me your name.”
“Mikhail Nemirovsky,” I stammered to the tune of cackling pirates, “sir,” I added in a whisper.
“That name will never do, especially in an outfit as memorable as yours.” Teach crossed his arms and studied me through slitted eyes. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Molly. Molly Nemirovsky Rackham.”
“I see.” Teach snapped his fingers loudly. At once, a waiter appeared with a platter of spicy-smelling chocolate drinks. Teach paid them no mind, the snap was for me. “From now until the day you die, which may well be today, you are to be known as Russian Jack Rackham.”
Chapter Three
1717, Swansea, Wales
A silver, curved cutlass hung easily at his side as though it was simply another appendage he bore, and the tell-tale fur cap, complete with ear flaps, sat atop his head. His face was smooth, save the shadow of a beard, and his piercing green eyes threatened to burn clean through me.
A collective sigh rose from the women who filled the pews, and a few began to fan themselves.
The man’s commanding presence ensured that the room’s silence. Then, like a bursting storm cloud, the chatter arose from the women in the pews and filled the room.
“It’s Russian Jack Rackham, dread pirate of the Atlantic!”
“It can’t be. He’s dead. Hanged in chains in London.”
“No, not chains. Russian Jack was hanged in the gibbet in Derbyshire.”
“The late Queen was known to favor certain pirates. Perhaps some in authority still do.”
The black-clad pirate’s full lips twitched as the murmurs swirled about the room like flies over a rotting corpse.
Lord above, that’s no ghost.
I tore my gaze from his and glanced at Charles, who swallowed audibly. He returned my glance and drew his sword from its scabbard with shaky hands, probably for the first time. I closed my eyes at his ineptitude as Russian Jack’s stare sizzled almost tangibly on my skin.
Charles fumbled with the handle of his sword before turning his attention to the unwelcome guest. “Wh-what do you want—sir?”
Russian Jack dragged his burning stare from me to Charles. Achingly slow, Jack drew his glittering cutlass from his scabbard and held it by the jewel encrusted handle for all to see.
The legendary life-taking cutlass that supposedly never left the hand of Russian Jack was as rich in jewels as rumors promised. It was widely whispered that the gems that adorned the handle of the sword, which had taken over a thousand lives, came from not only England, but also the Orient, and even the new world.
“I’ve no quarrel with you, sir.” Jack’s thick Russian accent rolled out over the aristocratic crowd like a hypnotic curse. A cutlass could be pillaged or stolen. An accent couldn’t. There was no doubt that it was truly Russian Jack who stood before us.
A few women swooned.
Charles forced another swallow. A look of relief swept across his pale face.
The tall pirate tilted his chin and let his fabled cutlass fall with a clatter at his feet. “I have no quarrel with you, nor any here. I simply beg a word with Back from the Dead Red.”
More gasps threatened to suck all the air from the room as Russian Jack touched his hat in true gentleman fashion. Slowly, he retreated onto the balcony, just out of sight.
Heat burned in my cheeks as all eyes in the room shifted to the girl who moments before was destined to become the copper king’s blushing bride. Me. I glanced at Charles. He held his sword as though it was a crying infant.
So much for a fresh start.
I let out a huff and threw down the sad bouquet. Gathering my dress into my fists, I stomped back down the aisle.
Mouths mostly hung agape as I passed, but a few mutters still met my ears.
“I thought her name was Drucilla. Didn’t Charles say her name was Drucilla?”
“Yes, and she is the daughter of a late English preacher—is she not?”
“Back from the Dead Red? Where have I heard that name before?”
I hesitated at the end of the plush aisle. Careful not to make eye contact with anyone, I stuck my toe under Jack’s cutlass and flipped it expertly into my hand.
“I thought she looked familiar—that young woman has a wanted poster of her own!”
Ignoring them, I continued onto the balcony and slammed the doors behind me.
There, within the confines of the balcony with only the sounds of the sea lapping at the rocks below, I drank in the appearance of the notorious pirate. Leaned leisurely against the railing, Jack stared out to sea as though he didn’t possess a care in the world. I cleared my throat and tried to ignore the odd sensation that tightened in my belly.
Russian Jack straightened his back and shifted his easy glance to me. “A woman with a blade. What a deadly combination.”
I held out the cutlass to him, which he accepted almost gently. The corners of his full lips pulled up into a soft smile. “Hello, Red.”
