Page 74 of Stilettos & Secrets on the 7 Seas

“Shouldn’t we l-l-l-leave for the meeting?” I stuttered, trying to regain my composure.

Rowan appeared at my side. “Time to go.”

Twenty-Five

The sun was at my back when we arrived on the beach, Rowan leading the way, Max to my right. Shrug was a few paces behind. Everyone except me was armed with swords and pistols. And, of course, Shrug had his rifle.

We made our way up the sandy beach to a narrow footpath leading to the fort. A crisp breeze cooled the back of my neck. I sighed, relieved that if we needed to tuck tail and sail away, the tide, or in this case, the wind, had turned in our favor.

Another gust of wind shuffled the palms overhead, counteracted the heat, and kept me from sweating like the pig over the spit. There’s nothing worse than being stuck in 1718 without your under-arm deodorant.

From my research, I recalled that Fort Nassau protects the western end of Nassau’s harbor. From the ship, I had spotted the square stone fort towering over the pirate republic. It stood high on the edge of the island with four bastions, one rounded instead of square like the other three. It reminded me of the Flak towers used in Berlin during World War II. Another jump I was happy to put behind me.

The narrow trail opened to sandy dunes. We navigated uphill toward a stone bridge. Rowan led the way. I followed Max. Halfway there, I stumbled on a craggy bush and stubbed my stiletto on a rock. “Fuck!”

Rowan stopped. He exhaled an irritated huff, as if I were a blister on his Achilles heel.

Max grabbed my hand, interlocked our fingers, and held tight, leading me forward in a Jack-and-Jill-going-up-the-hill fashion. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any “crown” breaking today.

My fingers tingled in his firm grasp, but I didn’t let go. Was it his tight grip, my fear of falling down the hill, or was a time traveler nearby giving me a sudden traveler tickle?

Once we crossed the stone bridge and stopped like a troubadour troupe busking on the front porch of the fort, the tickle vanished. Max released my hand and pounded on the giant wooden gate.

A horizontal slat in the gate slid open, and dark eyes peered out. “State yer business.”

Rowan bent down and spoke to the eyes. “I’m the quartermaster of theSea Storm. Captain Smith has arrived to serve counsel with Captain Vane.”

The clinking of chains against wood played like a medieval symphony, lifting the gate open. We walked through a courtyard and up a set of stone stairs. Cannons lined the outermost, harbor-facing battlements like protective gargoyles.

Once inside the interior of the fort, we walked down a long hallway. Sunlight filtered in through high, narrow arrow slits. Lanterns spaced along the walls hung from hooks, and the smokey tendrils of beeswax candles mixed with the scent of lantern oil made my nose itch.

The man leading us to Captain Vane stopped, gave a three-tap knock on a scarred wooden door, and waited.

“Enter,” a voice boomed from the other side of the door.

Five men sat at a long table. I recognized Jack Rackham in his calico coat.

A few men stood around the room, talking among themselves. The smell of stinky armpits, tobacco smoke, and years of blood, sweat, and tears almost knocked me over as I followed Max.

When we entered, all conversation halted. A man with coal-black hair slicked into a tail sat at the head of the table. He lifted his head and stared at me with dark, deep-set eyes that could give a girl nightmares.

“Captain Vane.” Max addressed the man.

Charles Vane didn’t look like any of the drawings I had seen of him or like the hunky guy that played him on that TV show Gertie and I binge-watched before I left home. He wasn’t a big guy. His white linen shirt showed the outline of muscles, but I pegged him more as a stealthy cat than muscle-bound bulkhead.

“Captain Smith. Whom do ye bring to our table?” Vane’s English accent rolled the words like loaded dice.

“Captain Vane, allow me to introduce my betrothed, Miss Jennifer.” Max bowed slightly to Captain Vane, then stepped aside, nudging me front and center.

A shock-like sensation zinged from my spine to my tailbone and something metal clashed against stone.

All heads snapped in the direction of the ruckus. Caiyan stood at the far wall, staring openly at me, a mug of spilled ale puddled on the floor.

A-ha! The scoundrel finally showed up. I kept my poker face, but Caiyan’s expression didn’t look like that of a man who had been following me. He looked surprised, like a man who’d told General Potts to keep me locked up so he could do my job.

The asshat.

I wished I’d removed my key and avoided the searing burn he sent straight to my doodah. Even angry, he made things stir.

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