The Ravishing Rees (Pirates of Britannia Book 10) Read online

  It was one such carriage, containing a ruddy-faced chinless earl, that had changed the course of Robbie’s life. He’d spotted the carriage through his spyglass from two hillocks away. The road was one less travelled by most nobles because of the rise in highwaymen—so Robbie knew that whoever was in that carriage had to have been desperate to get to wherever they were going. And desperate men usually carried something worth being desperate over. Though the driver had been armed with a hand cannon, Robbie had planned and pulled off many robberies along that road and so he knew just when to strike—as the carriage came around a bend in the road, just around a large boulder. The driver didn’t know what hit him until he landed on his back with Bruce atop him, his knife to the driver’s throat.

  Robbie lost no time in opening the carriage door and leveling his sabre-point at the man inside. A beady-eyed man with a chest bedecked with gold medallions and pendants, his be-ringed hand clutching a long, narrow jeweled box. It only took a sneer and a threat of emasculation to get the spineless man to give over all his valuables—and the box he seemed unwilling to relinquish. Until the tip of Robbie’s dagger was pressed against his groin.

  He thought little of the box until he and Bruce had reached their hideout, which was five miles southwest. But once they reached the safety of their cottage in the woods, Robbie opened the box to find the letter inside it, sealed in red wax with the insignia of a bear.

  Shrugging, curious, he broke the seal and read the letter. He could still remember every word.

  To His Grace the Duke of Revel,

  His majesty, King Henry VI, requests your immediate action regarding the matter of Saban Rees, known as Sabre. You are hereby ordered to commission twelve men of exceptional skill to aid in your search and capture of the smuggler and anyone else connected to the dastardly criminals of the so called Ganwyd o’r Mor. Any of the men who are able to find information pertaining to Rees’s whereabouts or are able to capture him or one of his family will be rewarded with ten pounds of silver.

  Once you have secured the twelve men, send a missive to Captain Marcus Gyland of the Waverunner in Liverpool. He will transport you to Cobh, Ireland where you will begin your mission.

  Grace be to God,

  Sir Aryn Marshall, Secretary of His Majesty’s Council of the Royal Navy

  That name…Rees… It had been the name of the man his father had died cursing. Robbie didn’t understand why that name had stuck with him for so many years—perhaps it was the delirious ramblings of his father as he wasted away—but there was a feeling, a pulling, that caused Robbie to take notice.

  “Saban Rees…” Robbie let the name slip from his lips, like an exhalation long in coming.

  “Careful,” a gritty voice said from behind him. “Yer likely ta get yerself killed sayin’ that name in a place like this.”

  His hand flying to the dagger at his belt, Robbie twisted on his stool to find a reedy man staring down at him. With one eye.

  “Berks,” Bruce hissed. “Thought you were long gone.”

  The man rolled his one eye and snorted. “Och, aye, I should be long gone. The information ye asked for was about as hard ta get as a nun’s virginity. And it didna come cheap.”

  Robbie watched as the long-time smuggler and supplier of stolen goods plopped down on the stool beside him, the linen wrapped around his missing eye slightly askew. Red, wicked looking flesh shown from beneath the fabric before Berks righted it. Robbie wondered what had happened to Berks’s eye, but one man didn’t ask another man about such things. Unless they were drunk. Which they were not.

  “Lass!” Berks bellowed. “Ale!” The wench in the barely tied together bodice and rucked up skirt smiled at him, showing a row of brown teeth. Robbie cringed but said nothing, waiting for Berks to get his drink and take the first gulp. Berks slapped the wench’s arse and she giggled before turning and sauntering over to another thirsty-looking man.

  “What information do you have, Berks?” Robbie asked, eyeing Berks warily. He did trust the man but could he trust that the information he’d bought was good? Robbie and Bruce could very well end up sailing right into a trap; the Irish Sea was rife with Scottish pirates, and Welsh smugglers, and all manner of seafaring criminals—not that he could blame them. Stealing was much more lucrative than tilling the soil or tanning a deer hide. He should know—his own father had died a wasted man, a chivalric knight turned crippled tanner. He’d died a broken man—in body and spirit, whatever the falling boulder hadn’t crushed, his loss of confidence had.

  Berks finished his ale with Bruce looking on lasciviously, then smacked his lips and answered, “No’ here. We can talk upstairs. Ye have a room?”

  Robbie nodded, rising to his feet. He stood a head taller than most men and so it was easy to see every face in the pub. No one seemed all that interested in him or his companions, which was good. He’d hate to kill anyone tonight.

  Bruce wobbled as he stood and Robbie sneered at him, disgusted that the man would allow himself such weakness, especially when he needed to be at his best. They were among potential enemies; letting their guard down could spell disaster—for their plan and for their mortality.

  Robbie led the way to the room he’d procured for the night. He hadn’t been sure if Berks would come through with the information; he had been prepared to wait. He’d already waited months to get to Ireland, and years before that, waiting for God’s mercy as his father lost his mind and his mother lost her will to go on. They were both gone now…and so he no longer waited for God to do anything—he’d do for himself. And if that meant travelling into pirate-infested waters to find the truth of his heritage, then so be it.

  Bruce shut the door behind them as they crowded into the tiny room with the single cot and the grimy window.

  “Speak,” Robbie said, crossing his arms over his chest to keep from throttling Bruce who’d barely made it up the stairs without falling on his goddamn face.

  Berks took a deep breath, his one-eyed gaze flitting about the room as if looking for enemies hiding in the shadows. After finding no one lurking about, he finally spoke. “Saban Rees is a cutthroat. They call him Sabre ‘cos he’d cut ye in half if ye as much as look at him crooked.”

  Robbie grunted, his thoughts whirling. Saban Rees… Sabre.

  “He’s the captain of the Torriwr, a sloop out of Port Eynon Bay. He suffers nay fools and takes nay prisoners. And now he knows yer lookin’ for him. There are waggin’ tongues in Liverpool.”

  Stunned but not truly surprised, Robbie cursed. “Port Eynon Bay? That’s back across the sea,” he supplied, annoyed that he would have to take another journey on another ship before he could face the man.

  “Aye, tis why word got to Rees before word got to ye…” Now Berks was being a nuisance to the highest order.

  “I did not think it would spread so fast…but there’s little I can do about it now,” Robbie murmured, rubbing at the scruff of hair along his jaw.

  “Ye’d be wise ta head back ta England and never speak of this again. The Ganwyd o’r Mor are ruthless…and Sabre is the leader of only part of those in the faction. The Rees…they be smugglers. Never been caught. Not in forty years. And they will kill ta keep from the hangman’s knot.”

  “If they are so notorious, how was it my father could never find them?” Though…his father had only begun his search for the Rees before his accident, which left him crippled and bed-ridden for more than two years. It had taken sheer stubborn will to relearn to walk again, and by then, he was in no shape to hunt down pirates.

  Berks eyed Robbie incredulously. “Tis no surprise. Few speak of them for fear of losing their tongues or their lives. The Rees are famously infamous—among those who live to speak of them.” Again, Berks looked on edge, as if speaking about the Rees in private could make them materialize in the room with them.

  “Damn,” Bruce blurted, staggering to his feet from where he’d collapsed on the only cot. “What’ll we do now, Robbie? We can’t sail to Port Eynon—b
ack the direction we came, damn you—without getting ourselves strung up and gutted.”

  Robbie’s taut anger snapped. “Then stay here, you coward! I would be better off without your drunken arse slowing me down. Have you no sense of preservation, man? By Mary’s tits you’re about as useful as a cock in a snake pit.” As soon as Robbie spoke the words, his wrath dissipated; his friend’s face was mottled and his lips were drawn into a thin line.

  “You damn well know I could best any one of those men downstairs with my eyes closed and my arm missing.”

  Sighing, Robbie ran his fingers through his hair, the slide of the hair along the small of his back seemed to draw the strength from his body. Suddenly exhausted, Robbie scrubbed his hand over his eyes.

  “Aye, I know, Bruce. Tis the trepidation talking.” That seemed to appease Bruce enough for the anger to drain from his face. Dipping his head in silent apology, Robbie turned his attention to the thin, balding man standing with his hand out—palm up.

  “Tis touchin’, really, but I need ta be on my way. Need ta make myself scarce for the next fortnight.”

  “Berks…thank you for the information.” He pulled a leather purse from beneath his waistband and opened it, handing Berks five gold coins.

  Once the agitated man left, Robbie turned from the now green-faced Bruce to stare out the window—where the grime hadn’t obscured his view of the dock. Ship masts and billowing canvas bobbed above the water, making the sea seemingly alive with frothy waves of white and wood.

  From behind him, Bruce asked, “What are you planning?”

  Bruce was right to wonder…

  “I will find Saban Rees.”

  After a long, tense silence, Bruce asked, “But why? What’s this Rees done to you?”

  Shrugging, Robbie answered as simply as he could. “He has done nothing to me.”

  “Then why this dangerous scheme?”

  “Honestly… I do not know. Perhaps…I want to look upon the face of the man who changed the course of my father’s life. Perhaps I just want to kill him.”

  Chapter Two

  Robbie gripped the railing with white knuckles and watched, his heart in his throat, as a monstrous wave bore down on them. The Saint Anne was a large two-masted ship, her crew were former navy; well-trained and about as salty as preserved cod, but even they could not control the sea. And the sea was eager to swallow them all.

  “Yer lookin’ green about the gills, man,” the first mate, Baskins, yelled to him over the roar of the storm. “Perhaps ye’d like to tuck yer head into yer arse for safety!” A few of the other sailors around him—all pulling ropes and grunting—sneered their agreement.

  The wind whipped salt water into his face, plastering his long hair against his cheeks and neck. Gasping at the cold, he choked on the gulp of water that poured down his throat—served up by the wave as it slammed down on the ship.

  Choking, struggling to stay upright, the men around him chuckled and cursed.

  He couldn’t understand their levity at a time like this, when it seemed that their lives were forfeit to the waves and the wind. Then again, this was only his second voyage, his first being the trip from Liverpool to Cobh. Like his father, he’d spent his life on land, never once looking to the sea for his fortune. And why would he? There were plenty of wealthy marks to rob along the highways, so there was no need to set foot on the coast.

  Until that letter.

  So, here he was, nearly retching into the froth below him, and listening to men he could have easily killed if he were on solid ground. But he wasn’t, and so he held on, praying to Mary, Mother of God, to spare him.

  What have I been reduced to, praying to virgins and barely keeping myself from vomiting into the ocean… If Bruce were there with him, he’d be laughing into the gale—at Robbie. More than likely, Bruce had woken up with a pounding headache, a mouth full of wool, and a raging anger at being left behind. Though Robbie trusted Braw Bruce with his life, this journey was a dangerous one, far more dangerous than anything either of them had ever undertaken. But it was Robbie’s journey to take. It was his father who’d died a hollow man, blaming his troubles on a man he’d never met.

  And you are doing the very same… As was his right!

  It was Robbie who’d suffered when his mother wasted away under her husband’s obsession with a man his own “grandfather” had never met. It was Robbie who had to tend to his father’s needs after his mother waited for Robbie to leave for the market before she walked into the winter woods to die alone. It was Robbie who had to care for his home and his father’s business as his father slipped further and further into madness.

  And now Robbie would find the man who’d ruined it all—the life his father should have had, the life his father deserved after years of serving King and Church. He should have been a man of leisure and wealth, not a shattered tanner practically begging for any bit of work he could get.

  He’d loved his father…and so he would do this for him.

  No. This wasn’t Bruce’s burden to bear. Robbie would have to make it up to the man…if he made it back to Cobh alive. If the sea didn’t kill him, he was sure his search for Saban Rees just might. From what he’d heard of the man and his family of smugglers from the Saint Anne crew, the man was as elusive as a ghost but as vicious as a demon. And his family was no better.

  And I am eager to meet them face to face… A humorless smile tugged at his face, which disappeared as a wave—a true monster of human nightmares—rose above them. The laughter around him died in an instant and the screaming began. But silence followed soon after, just as the darkness consumed him.

  “If this pig does not kill me the chicken surely will,” Glynnis grumbled as she locked the gate to the small pen where she kept Bard, her young pig. The pig had been a careless purchase—she didn’t have the space nor the food to feed the thing, but she knew that if she only kept at it, Bard would make a plentiful portion of preserved meat.

  “And I will eat you, too, Arlene, if you do not start laying eggs again!” she yelled to the hen who was pecking at Bard’s back as if the wretched creature could find worms there. Arlene clucked happily, ignoring Glynnis’s ire.

  Frustrated at her lack of food, she knew she needed to make a trip to the coast. The craggy coastline often provided unexpected finds, and sometimes she sold those finds for coins she then used to purchase seeds, flour, fish, and fabric for making her clothes. She needed all those things now.

  She gazed down at the worn and tattered hem of her skirt and the bodice that did nothing to keep her breasts from spilling over. It was five years old, from a time when she was better fed…but not better off. More often than not, she had to bind her breasts with scraps of linen to keep from exposing herself when visiting the village.

  The path from the thicket where her cottage sat to the beach along the Bristol Channel coast was one she knew by heart, and walking it took little more than half an hour. The soft dirt of the forest morphed into the gritty, pebbly sand, and each step pushed small rocks and pieces of seashell into her bare feet. Not that it bothered her all that much. She’d walked barefoot everywhere she could, unless it was winter. Then, she wore her late husband’s boots.

  Thoughts of William made her twitch, as they often did. The man had died as he lived, in another woman’s bed. She didn’t mourn him, had barely known him save that he was as handsome as sin and as heartless as the Devil. So, when he was run through with the sword brandished by a cuckolded husband, Glynnis didn’t spare him a tear. And she refused any sympathy or pity from William’s family.

  They could all rot in hell for all she cared. The whole lot of them were thieves, cutthroats, pirates, and Lord knew what else—because she didn’t care to. One or two of them would come around and leave field dressed deer on her doorstep while she was in the village, but she simply gave the deer to another. She knew they were only looking after the widow of their eldest cousin, but she had never felt like one of the family while William was alive, and
she refused to be one now. They could take their deer carcasses and sit on them, antlers first! And the gold coins they left… Well, as much as she hated giving away something she could really use, she was stalwart…and as stubborn as a pregnant mare. She placed the gold in the church coffers. It was the least she could do for tying her soul to a man like William.

  She’d fight and struggle and eventually thrive without anyone’s help. She’d done the very same thing long before she met William. And she’d do so long after the bastard. There was nothing William’s family could do or say to change her mind.

  She would rather die of starvation than take anything from the likes of Saban Rees and his despicable cousins.

  Reaching the beach just as the afternoon sun reached the highest point in the sky, Glynnis peered out over the sea and sighed. It was glorious. Majestic. Fickle. Murderous. Not looking where she was going, she tripped over the edge of a net sticking out of the sand.

  “Oh, this just might be what I need!” Excited, Glynnis bent to examine the length of net visible along the scattering of seaweed. It looked mostly intact; she’d have to free it to get a better look.

  Glynnis tucked a wayward strand of sable hair behind her ear and pulled the half-buried net from the sodden sand. She smiled down at the ten-foot square net. It would need some mending to be useful, but she could sell it to a fishmonger in the village. It would make her a few coins, which would help her stock up on goods for the coming winter. With the net in hand, she peered out over the surf, eyeing the whitecaps in hopes of something more substantial rolling in with the breakers. This stretch of beach was the best place to look for things washed ashore from shipwrecks. And from the look of things, there was a shipwreck not too far from shore…and not too long ago. That wasn’t a surprise; there’d been one hell of a storm the day before. The wind had torn at the thatch of her cottage roof, which would need fixing before the next storm battered the coast—which could be any moment judging from the black clouds kissing the horizon.