Chapter Two
Rumors had been swirling around the islands that some ship captains had found a new commodity to trade. After dropping off a full cargo of slaves in the colonies, they crammed the holds of their ships with women for the return journey across the ocean. Sheiks and princes of the desert realms were known to pay a bounty for a comely female to add to their harems. Those who were not as attractive still brought in a good sum from the whorehouses in foreign ports.
Young women were being kidnapped in the Colonies and dragged off, never to return. The slavers knew there was little chance the anxious fathers and brothers, mostly shopkeepers or the owners of a few hundred acres of cropland, could muster the resources and manpower to pursue them across the vast ocean – and even less chance of finding them once they’d been sold at a port somewhere on the endless coasts of the Middle East.
Mercy knew as soon as word got out her parents were dead, she’d have become a target. With no powerful protector, the local authorities wouldn’t raise a hand as her servants were captured or driven away in fear. An attractive, unmarried Englishwoman living alone with her old nanny was a prize just waiting to be plundered.
She and Sairy had seen the slavers coming in the scrying mirror, just as they had seen the death of her parents. Mercy had a distant relative in Bath, a middle-aged man Papa had named in his will to run the plantation for her if his death occurred before she took a husband, but it would take months to get word to Cousin Daniel and more months before he would arrive in St. Thomas.
Mercy was fully capable of overseeing the day-to-day operation of the estate and had done so even before her father became gravely ill. But the local courts refused to recognize a woman’s authority as binding when it came to engaging in commerce. To make things worse, the port of St. Thomas had long been recognized as a haven for pirates. Their trade enriched the coffers of the island’s governor general, and he was unlikely to lift a finger to defend the holdings of a lone female, especially if he were to receive a share of her wealth in exchange for his inaction. Her fate was in limbo until her cousin, a faceless stranger who had the required male appendage, could arrive.
To make matters worse, Mercy realized if she were captured, her unknown relative had even less reason to rescue her, since he would then become the sole heir to Whitaker Hall and all its extensive holdings in the Islands. Her best chance of continuing to live the life she loved on St. Thomas was to leave it – at least for now.
So she lay cowering in the darkness in a flimsy lifeboat, praying she’d remain hidden till the ship was far out to sea. She heard the shouts of the crew as they prepared to set sail but didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until she felt the swell of the ocean carry them out past the harbor.
Mercy had been on long ocean voyages before. In her late teens, Mama had taken her to England for two years so she could further her education and become familiar with all the unwritten rules of English society. St. Thomas was under Danish rule, and her father was determined his only child and heir be familiar with her British roots.
But Mercy refused to allow her trip to be turned into a husband-hunting expedition. She made that clear from the start to both her parents. Once there, she soon found out she hated the cold, damp weather. She hated the restrictions placed on proper Englishwomen, hated their simpering helplessness, hated being confined by tight corsets and layers of petticoats. Mercy endured the experience grudgingly while counting the days till she could return to her tropical home.
Though she bowed to her husband’s wishes, Mercy knew Mama secretly agreed with her. She did her duty, introducing her daughter to England and England to her daughter, all the while homesick for the warm breezes and casual lifestyle of their West Indies home. Both women had breathed a sigh of relief when they boarded the ship that would take them on the long voyage back to St. Thomas.
The ship she was on now had scarcely cleared the harbor when Mercy knew this sea voyage would be nothing like her past experiences. Outside the shelter of the harbor the wind picked up and the first hard raindrops pelted her back. Having been through a hurricane at Whitaker Hall as a child years ago, she prayed they would be spared the full wrath of the heavens on this night.
But her prayers were in vain. Once out on the open ocean, fierce winds drove the ship right into the heart of the storm. Enormous waves crashed over the bow, and the rain attacked it cruelly, driven sideways by the force of the gale.
Mercy was terrified. So much water was pouring into the longboat as the waves crashed against the hull she feared she would drown right there in her hideaway. Lifting her head to take a breath, she peeked over the ship’s rail.
Though the driving rain, she could barely see the captain. He looked to be struggling with the wheel, as though it took all his strength just to hang on to it. Ripping off his belt, he tied himself to its base. Over the howling of the wind, she heard him give the order for the crew to lash themselves to the nearest rail or mast lest they be swept overboard.
As soon as she felt a momentary break in the wind, Mercy dragged herself out of the longboat. Climbing over the rail, she came face to face with a startled crewman. He let out a bloodcurdling shriek and backed away.
“I’m not a ghost,” she cried out. “Help me! For the love of God, throw me a rope!”
***
Even over the din of the storm James heard the screams and shouts of his crew. He called out to Mr. Finch to take his place, lashing the man securely to the helm. Struggling to stay upright, he made his way amidship, clinging to any handhold he could find.
“It’s the Angel of Death, Cap’n!” shrieked one of his men, pointing. “Here to take us down to our grave!”
As the captain came face to face with the figure huddled against the railing, a bolt of lightning illuminated the deck, and he got a clear view of his unexpected passenger. A veiled woman, swathed in black from head to toe. Her face was framed by a stiff white cloth, with only the edges of it peeking out from under the black veil covering her head. Pale skin set off dark brown eyes wide with fear. She clutched the rail for dear life with one hand while the other fingered a string of roughly carved wooden beads.
She looked up at his ferocious scowl and sank to her knees, reciting what sounded like the Lord’s Prayer in French. He stared at her in shock.
“You’re a nun!”