Oh no. Not only is Jack going to lose his life, but you’re going to lose yours, too, Red.
I ducked my head into Jack’s large jacket and fought my way into the bottom of the boat. I jammed myself beneath the little seat and curled up as tight as I could. The waves threatened to pitch me out into the churning, angry sea, but in a stroke of luck, I held on and my tiny boat didn’t capsize.
I would like to think I didn’t cry, but I’m fairly certain I did. It was no matter though, since any screams of mine could not be heard over the shrieking winds.
The sickening crack from the side of my little rowboat woke me from a nightmarish sleep.
What the—
Thwack!
I dared a peek at my surroundings. Jagged rocks rose up all around me.
Smack!
I’m being beaten against the rocky coast.
Crunch!
Oh Lord, it’s really happening.
Wham!
I skimmed the shore, but there were no lights, only rocks for as far as I could see. Which wasn’t far.
This doesn’t look right. Where am I?
Crack!
An angry wave pulled me back and smacked me hard into a sharp rock.
That’s the one that is going to seal my fate, right there.
I was correct. My tiny boat split in two and with a frothy surge, icy storm water rushed in. I grabbed for the craggy rocks, my fingertips digging for any kind of hold. I pressed all my weight against the rock and started to climb as the water yanked at my heavy legs.
Just a little more—
Before I could swing my numb leg onto the rock, my fingers slipped and I slid into the ocean. I ignored the slicing pain as the water-sharpened rocks slit my palms. I planted my feet and tried again, feeling with my feet for anything to use as leverage. The tip of my boot caught the remnants of The Black Otter’s rowboat, as the boat succumbed to the violent waves.
I clung to the unforgiving rocks like the little gray cat-creature, the ring-tailed lemur, had clung to the Queen of Madagascar’s shoulder.
The image of Jack hanging in the gibbet flashed into my mind with white-hot precision. I pushed it away and tried to focus only on climbing the rock, even as the sharp edges bit into my palms and knees. Exhaustion gripped my arms and legs, threatening to send me sprawling back into the sea.
To my death. And Jack’s.
Lightning flashed around and illuminated the hopeless scene. Angry, white-capped swells lunged at the rocks and tried to wash me away. Thunder boomed and drowned out everything except for the infernal roar of the sea. I closed my eyes and forced my muscles to pull my weary frame up the rocks—or be dashed against them.
When I awoke, the world was quiet.
Am I dead? Is this heaven?
The storm was over, the bed was soft, and a kind-faced woman leaned over me.
“Where am I?” My voice was a whisper over my dry, cracked lips.
“Why, you’re in hospital. In Wales.” She smiled and held a spoon of broth to my lips. “Welcome back from the dead, madam.”
Chapter Seventeen
Swansea, Wales
Charles Hoolihan fidgeted with his blade. A few of the wedding guests had trickled out when the snippets of conversation that wafted in through the open windows from the balcony turned bloody. Others sat more attentive, backs straight in their pews, not daring to whisper for fear they might miss the next exchange between the woman who was almost Mrs. Charles Hoolihan and her notorious pirate husband who was rumored to be dead, but so clearly was not.
Everything about what should have been the happiest day of his life was already destined to be Swansea gossip for years to come. He dug in first one hairy ear with his finger, then the other.
The harpist rose from her stool with a huff. “Mr. Hoolihan, if I may,” she began. The room silenced. “I suggest you either go get your bride or leave with what dignity you have left.”
Voices muttered their agreement from the pews.
“They needed time to catch up is all.” Charles wiped his finger on his vest. “Drucilla will come back in when she’s ready. It isn’t as though she’ll clamber down the balcony with that notorious pirate, now is it?” Charles chuckled to himself, but nobody joined him. He stood there at the wedding altar, smiling, but he was chuckling alone.
The harpist shifted her weight and squeaked. “Her name is Back from the Dead Red, Charles, didn’t you hear her? By her own admission. She is a murdering pirate, just like Russian Jack. Didn’t you see the scar on her face?”
Charles hung his head like a whipped pup.
He didn’t lift his feet as he shuffled toward the balcony. With a halfhearted glance over his shoulder that bespoke defeat more than desire, Charles flung open the door. He peeked outside, then boldly stuck his head over the threshold. “Oh my.”
“Well, Charles?” The harpist’s voice clanged out like a cracked church bell. “What is it?”
