Jemima's Confession

         Ronan barged into his quarters, grinning when Jemima Carlisle started, spinning to stare at him before taking an instinctive step backward. Good, she was afraid—extracting information shouldn’t be too difficult then. As she pressed her back against the opposite wall, he calmly, methodically shut the cabin door behind him and locked it. Its resounding click assured him she could hear the lock sliding firmly into place. Holding the key up for her to see, pleased to see her wide eyes locked on it, he tucked it into his pocket. As her eyes shot back up to meet his, he smirked, leaving no room for doubt that he was the one in complete control.

         Ronan ignored her then. Sauntering over to the carved mahogany cabinet, he poured himself a drink and stood awhile gazing out the window overlooking the stern of the ship. In particular, he watched as the Lady Anne became a small speck on the vast, open horizon as they sailed farther away from her, satisfied everything had gone according to plan. Captain Roark had handed Miss Carlisle over without incident. Coward.

         He continued to gaze out at the ocean after the Lady Anne faded out of view. The late afternoon sun reflected on the water, causing flickers of golden light to waltz along the surface. Even after six years of life on the sea, Ronan continued to be awed by its splendor. Everyday it was different—every sunrise, every sunset, every storm different from the rest but just as magnificent. He could never comprehend how his father could hate it so.

         The sounds of his prisoner fidgeting about the cabin drew Ronan’s attention back to her. As he had hoped, his silence discomposed her further. Miss Carlisle paced about the cabin, her hands alternately twitching in her skirts and patting at her coiffure to keep it from unraveling. Casting a wary glance his direction and unexpectedly meeting his eyes, she froze.

         Relaxing against the polished mahogany desk, Ronan examined her, his half-empty drink held loosely in his hand. Her reported beauty hadn’t been exaggerated. Ebony hair fell in gentle ringlets around her heart-shaped face. The azure satin of her dress emphasized her pale blue eyes, which reminded him of the clear, crystalline water of the West Indies. Beneath her straight, delicate nose, her mouth was full and temptingly curved. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, but already she had a woman’s body, nicely rounded in all the right places, noticeable even beneath the shapeless, high-waisted gown favored by fashionable ladies these days. Ronan allowed himself a long look, smiling when she squirmed under his scrutiny and crossed her arms in front of her breasts, denying his eyes access.

         “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Carlisle,” he said, amused when she jumped. He wondered what surprised her more—that he finally spoke, the cultured tone of his voice, or the fact he knew her name. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. He certainly hoped so. It would make things much more straightforward.

         “You’re…you’re a pirate,” her voice was little more than a whisper, but her chin rose and condemnation flashed in her eyes. That little spark of courage surprised him.
         “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jem, but I’m afraid I’m not quite that disreputable. I am actually a privateer in the service of His Majesty, but I’m sure the distinction is a trivial one to you, given your present circumstances.”

         “A privateer? Aren’t you supposed to attack foreign vessels, like the French or one of those American privateers that have been so much of a bother lately?” She paused, frowning. “And my name is Jemima, not Jem. Besides, I did not give you permission to use my Christian name.”

         “Jem suits you,” he said, deliberately disregarding her reproof, “and I did not attack the Lady Anne. I merely persuaded Captain Roark to hand you over. It wasn’t difficult.”

         She snorted and gestured at the gun still strapped on his hip. “A gun aimed at your head likely would be enough incentive for most men.”

         “Whatever works.” Her glare and the further tilting of her chin elicited a laugh from Ronan. The sound of it startled him. The last thing he expected when he started on his mission was to be amused by this girl.

         His mission—he had forgotten all about it.

         Jem yelped in surprise as he slammed his now empty glass on the desk. Carew Allardyce, the former viscount, and Ronan’s father, would have been ashamed of him—even more so than usual. Once again he was failing to do his duty, forgetting about his purpose and his ultimate aim. His fist clenched tighter around the glass. Then again, he never could satisfy the bastard anyway.

         Ronan closed his eyes and concentrated on unclenching his fist and regaining control. Slowly, his hand relaxed and he opened his eyes, fixing them on Jem. Once again, her back pressed against the opposite wall, her hands clutching at the skirt of the gown, wrinkling the fabric.

         He forced himself to smile. “Pardon me, Miss Carlisle, I haven’t yet introduced myself. Ronan Allardyce, Viscount Westbrook at your service.” He gave her a small bow and waited for recognition to hit.

         She gasped, staring at him, pressing farther back against the wall, her fair complexion whitening. “Westbrook! But…but…aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

         He strode over to her, halting to tower over her slender form. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. “No, my father is dead,” his voice was low and hard, “and your father is responsible.”

         Jem paled even further, her clear eyes clouded, her bottom lips trembled, and when she spoke, it was so low of a whisper he had to strain to hear it. “It was an accident.”

         Stepping closer until there were only a few inches between them, he growled, “It was no
accident. Francis Carlisle murdered my father.”

         “No!” She jerked away and tried to duck past him. He pinned her to the wall, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up at him.

         “Tell me where your father is. Tell me where he is hiding.”

         She shook her head fiercely. “No. It was an accident.” Her eyes went soft and wide, pleading with him. “Please, you must believe me.”

         “It’s not possible. My father would never have been on that ship.” Carew hated the ocean and everything having to do with it. The only way he would have boarded a ship, dry-docked or not, was by force. She had to be lying, as much as her beseeching eyes tempted him to believe otherwise. Heat boiled through his body and his jaw tightened. He wouldn’t succumb. “No. Carlisle killed my father. It’s the only explanation. Now tell me where he is.”

         “My father is not a murderer.” She tried once again to get away. He kept her caged between him and the wall.

         “Damnation woman! Tell me where he is.” Infuriated, he gave her a rough shake.

         “No.” She thrashed about, trying to break from his ruthless grasp. “It was an accident. My father wasn’t even there. How could he have killed him?”

         Her foot managed to strike against his shin, startling him when pain shot up his leg. However, instead of letting go, he only tightened his grip, drawing closer to her and doing his best to keep her immobilized. “He planned it and set it up to look like an accident. He wanted out of that bloody deal and when my father refused, he killed him for it.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked hard, forcing her head back so she had no choice but to gaze directly into his eyes. Her body trembled, her lips parted in pain, and her light blue eyes, dulled with fear, leaked tears onto her cheeks due to his painful grip. His anger cooled slightly at the sight. He was sorry he must hurt such a lovely girl. Whatever the sins of her father, she was an innocent in all this—innocent enough to believe that a man who would disappear and leave her defenseless against men like him wasn’t capable of murder.

         He loosened his grip on her hair but kept her staring up at him, and in a soothing yet firm voice, ordered, “Tell me where he is, and I will let you go.”

         To prove his point, he released her, stepped back, and waited. She collapsed on the floor and closed her eyes, her body still quivering. Eventually, she stilled. When she looked back up at him, her face was still white, but her eyes had darkened. They now reminded Ronan of the Atlantic during a summer storm.

         “Just tell me where he is,” he cajoled softly. “One word—a city, a town.” It would be a start. He could work from there.

         Her eyes met his and didn’t waver as she stood up. Her brow furrowed and she appeared to be searching for something in his expression. They stood like that for several minutes, just staring at one another.

         She broke the connection, her gaze falling to the floor. “I…I can’t.” She raised her eyes again and looked directly at him as she said, “I don’t know where he is.”

         He couldn’t believe it. This frightened little girl had just lied to his face. He marveled at her courage. Captain Roark had immediately handed Jem over when Ronan had calmly pointed a gun his direction, yet this girl, having seen the full force of his anger, still denied him. He considered threatening her with the gun, but decided against it. She would likely call his bluff. He couldn’t shoot her. He needed her alive to tell him where her father was.

         What was left of his rage faded away to anticipation of the challenge before him. She knew where her father was and eventually, she would tell him. Until then, he would enjoy the process of extracting the information from her. He would do his duty and avenge his father, but he would also have a little fun.

         He arched a brow. “Very well, then. I will leave you here to think about it. Perhaps after a day or two of confinement you will remember something. Good evening, Jem.” He calmly unlocked the door and left, shutting and locking it behind him, and as he strode down the corridor, he smiled.


         Ronan changed his tactics three days later. Jem proved to be nearly as stubborn as he. He tried to starve her out the first day, but when she still insisted she didn’t know where her father was, he had conceded and sent her some food—just the rough fare his crew ate, hardly the lavish meals she was used to. Then he left her completely alone the following two days, hopeful the sheer isolation would force her to reconsider. His cabin was large compared to the other accommodations onboard but still too small a space to be comfortable in for extended periods of time. He smiled, remembering her reaction upon learning it was his cabin. She demanded to be put somewhere else, refusing to sleep in his bed. He, of course, denied her request. Even so, last evening she still refused to tell him anything.

         Thus, today he brought her breakfast. She still slept, curled up on the end of the wide built-in berth, taking up as little space as possible, with her knees tucked up against her body and her hands folded beneath her chin. She probably only conceded to sleep on the bed when exhaustion demanded it. He imagined her delicate little nose crinkling up in disgust as she climbed into it and grinned.

         Setting the tray on the table, he moved beside the bed. She looked like a rumpled angel, so young and innocent. Her hair was disheveled, an inky black aura encircling her head. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate rose from sleep and her position had caused her blue satin dress to stretch across her gently rounded backside. He gave it a hearty slap. She shrieked, awaking instantly and tumbling over the end of the bed, ending in an undignified heap on the floor.

         “Good morning, Jem. I’ve brought you some breakfast.” He gestured to the tray on the table, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you would care to have something to eat.”

         Her eyes narrowed at him as she picked herself off the floor and rubbed her injured behind. “I thought you planned on only giving me rations until I confessed.”

         “I changed my mind. You’ve already lost too much weight.” He strode over to the table and held out the chair. “I can’t have you wasting away on me. Then I’ll never learn the location of your father.”

         She stepped backwards. Perplexed, Ronan glanced down. His hands gripped the back of the seat. He silently cursed and forced himself to let go and give her a charming smile. “Come. Sit. Eat. You’ll need to keep up your strength.”

         She hesitated before cautiously approaching the table and him. She halted halfway, attempted to smooth out her ruffled skirt and ran her fingers several times through her curly tresses. Then, she sat in the offered seat, her back straight, refusing to relax in the chair.

         He took the seat directly opposite and just watched her. They sat silently for a long time as she ate, her vigor betraying her enjoyment of the fruit and warm biscuits as compared to her previous meals. Nevertheless, despite her haste, her every movement conveyed her inherent grace and elegance, and only an occasional tremor in her hand and a few anxious glances exposed her discomposure. Eventually, she broke the silence.

         Peering out one of the windows over the berth, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

         “The Vengeance is bound for London. Whether or not you will be disembarking there depends on whether or not you start cooperating.”

         One of her eyebrows quirked and her lips twitched slightly. “The Vengeance? How appropriate.”

         “Indeed.” He had certainly thought so nearly six years ago when he had named her, having just purchased the schooner to begin his career as a privateer. The occupation had been his own brand of vengeance against his father, who hardly approved. How ironic that the Vengeance was now employed in avenging his sire’s death. He unconsciously made a fist on the table.

         Jem noticed, her eyes gentling. “You must have really loved your father to have gone to such lengths to avenge his death, abducting me from the Lady Anne, risking your ship, your occupation, and possibly even your life.”

         “It has nothing to do with love,” he said with a derisive snort.

         Her brow furrowed. “Then why go through so much trouble?”

         “Justice.” He stood, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste. Bracing both hands on the table, he leaned over it and her. “I believe you’ve finished with your meal. I’ve been patient long enough. It’s time you told me where I can find Francis Carlisle.”

         She flinched but didn’t back away. “He didn’t kill your father.”

         He hated the gentle hum of her voice, the softening of her eyes, and especially the directness of her stare. When she looked at him like that, she appeared so guileless and honest. Over the past few days, it made it all too easy to believe her.

         “Impossible. It couldn’t have been an accident.” He spun away to escape those damn eyes of hers and started pacing. “My father had no interest in ships. He hated them. Didn’t trust them. I have no idea how your father managed to talk him into that shipping deal in the first place. But the deal went sour and he tried to cut his loses. My father, curse his stubborn pride to hell, wouldn’t let him.”

         “Yes, Papa wanted out of the deal, and he wanted Westbrook to pull out as well. They needed to ‘cut their losses.’ Your father couldn’t understand that.”

         Ronan stalked back over to her. “And I suppose it was simply coincidence that two days after Carlisle tries to withdraw, my father falls through a section of rotting wood on one of the ships which Carlisle and the crew, all experienced seaman, failed to notice until then?”

         Her eyes glistened. She closed them, swallowing hard. “It’s true he didn’t notice the planks.” Her eyes opened, giving him that god-awful stare again. “He made a mistake, but that doesn’t make him a murderer,” she said, her voice hardening with conviction at the end.

         It would be so easy to believe her, but he couldn’t. For once in his life, he would do his duty. “That’s exactly what it makes him,” he taunted.

         The jibe worked. Jem’s eyes darkened to that stormy blue again. They narrowed into slits as she sprung out of her chair. Because he had been leaning over her, her eyes were now nearly level with his. “It does not. Papa is a good and honorable man, and Westbrook was one of his closest friends. He greatly admired and respected your father and has been inconsolable ever since the accident. But he did not murder him.” She threw her hands up in disgust and stalked over to the window.

         He followed directly behind her. “If you don’t—”

         “Do you really want to know where my father is, my lord?” Her voice was low as she folded her arms in front of her chest.

         “What kind of fool question is that?” He gripped her arm and spun her around to face him. “Of course—.”

         “I’ll tell you where he is.” She shrugged his hand off, turning back to stare out over the simmering ocean. His shock was so great, he let her go. He drew in a deep breath and waited.

         Tense silence built between them. Impatient, he opened his mouth to speak.

         “He’s in isolation. He’s been in isolation ever since the accident. Before you abducted me, I was on my way to comfort him.” She paused and continued to stare out into the distance. Finally, she turned back to him, arms still crossed. Her full mouth had thinned with determination and her eyes had dulled and clouded over, as if concealing a great sadness. “My father, like yourself, ridiculously blames himself for what happened. He wishes he had never let Westbrook talk him into that deal. Papa never understood why he wanted it so much. Now he never will.”

         Her eyes never wavered from his. Ronan felt an odd throbbing in his chest and a tightening of his throat as he began to realize this was no lie. Eyes like that couldn’t lie.

         Sudden anger lit her eyes and poured into her voice. “I cannot tell you the pain my father suffers at the loss of his dearest friend through his own neglect. I can only assure you that his pain is as great as yours, if not more so. But your father’s death was an accident, you must believe that.”

         Her head bowed and her voice lowered even further, though it did not lose its intensity. “Papa considered your father to be one of the most honorable and agreeable men in all of England.” Her eyes returned to his, and she glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. “I’m certain he would be ashamed of you for slandering his best friend and abducting his only child.” She spat out the words.

         The words lashed at him. He was ashamed of himself. Unable to bear her contemptuous gaze any longer, he turned away from her. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

         “I pray you are satisfied with this confession, my lord, because it is all you shall receive. You can starve me, beat me, do what you will, but you will not hear another word from me.” He heard, rather than saw her march over to the table again and sit down for he could not bring himself to look at her.

         Her words and stormy eyes cast him overboard and he found he could not swim in such turbulent waters. His throat suddenly closed up, cutting off his air. The room began to spin. He needed to get out of there—away from her. He stumbled out of the cabin and out onto the deck, and for the first time in lifetime of sailing, he retched over the side of the ship.


         His head was still spinning hours later. After heaving the contents of his stomach over the railing, he had sprawled out on the deck. Gibbs, his first officer, who had been on deck to witness Ronan’s nauseating loss of control, had come running to help, but after Ronan had barked at him to leave him alone, none of the other crewmembers had dared approach. A few of them even crossed themselves while slipping by.

         Ronan paid no attention to his men. He just laid there, his body soothed by the gentle rock of the ocean, his skin warmed by the sun. Eventually, the sun began to burn, but he paid it little heed as he tried to make sense of his chaotic emotions.

         Was it really possible that Jem was telling the truth? If so, his father would indeed have been ashamed of him. Then again, Ronan had been one disappointment after another since the day he was born. He was certain his pater would have disowned him when he took to the sea if there had been any other heirs, but Ronan was the last. So Carew hadn’t denied his son his title, but he certainly had cut him out of every other aspect of his life.

         When Ronan bought the Vengeance and sailed away, it was the last he’d seen of his father, and he vowed never to return. For six long years, he had neither seen nor heard from him. He hadn’t cared. He had been too busy to care as he traversed the Atlantic, causing endless trouble for the French and sometimes the Americans, gaining information for the Crown and wealth for himself. Then the news of his father’s death came.

         First and foremost, Ronan had been shocked, slapped in the face. He remembered his father being so strong and virile, much like himself. It seemed impossible that he could be gone. The circumstances surrounding his death were even more incredulous. He died onboard a ship—a dry-docked ship—yet a ship nevertheless.

         His father had never understood Ronan’s obsession with the ocean and its ultimate freedom. Carew thrived on structure, on duty and responsibility. He considered his son wild, untamed, and chaotic. Ronan imagined his father saw the sea similarly. It was something he could not control—and Carew hated what he had no control over. Thus, it seemed impossible that his father would have willingly gone aboard that ship, and the only explanation Ronan could accept was foul play.

         He had seized the notion and ruthlessly sought out justice—doing his duty, as he was sure his father would expect. He concentrated on the need to lay blame, on his anger, and blocked out all the other emotions he was afraid to confront, fearful of what they would reveal. He focused on discovering the identity of Carew’s partner and failing to locate him, had abducted his daughter. Not once had he faltered from his course or doubted the validity of his quest. He hadn’t stopped to think, hadn’t let himself dwell on his emotions.

         Jem’s confession changed all that. She, with her beautiful marine eyes gleaming with their unsettling candor, had forced him to face the truth and denied him his shield of anger. With her scathing tongue, she had stripped him of his vengeful illusion and left him impotent against the rush of emotion. His father hadn’t been murdered. No one had denied him the reconciliation he hadn’t known he wanted until it was too late—no one but himself.

         With an anguished groan, he tossed his arm over his eyes to stem the sudden flood of tears, but like a summer storm, once unleashed, they poured out of him in heaving sobs. There, on the deck of his beloved ship, on the ocean he so dearly loved, he wept for the man he sacrificed for them.