The Pirate Bride. Shannon Drake

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      Ellen Fotherington did not hack people to pieces. She did not steal their birthrights. She took what made life most precious: freedom, and their very souls.

      In Red’s case, she had determined to curry favor by shipping her to France and giving her to a hideous little count with gout and a dozen other wretched diseases to use as he wished. Under lock and key, Red was sent back across the Atlantic.

      It was then that Red Robert, the most deadly pirate on the high seas, had been born.

      Red lowered her head, inhaling deeply. She steadied herself, and then almost smiled. The captain of a merchantman they had once seized off Savannah had told her that Ellen had died. Slowly. Painfully.

      She did believe in God.

      And it might have been the only time she had ever believed that God also believed in her, no matter how un Christian such a thought might be. Ellen, who had paraded her entire household to church every Sunday, deserved to be in hell. God could afford to be forgiving; she could not.

      Still, Blair Colm, the man who had slain infants in front of her for the sake of expediency, was still alive, a fact that desperately needed to be rectified. God had allowed him to live far too long. God had allowed him to commit far too many atrocities.

      God needed her help.

      God had helped her create Red Robert, and so Red Robert would now help God rid the world of Blair Colm.

      That was one way to look at things, anyway. It was a way of seeing the world that helped her to stay sane and committed to her path.

      And now that she had started upon her path, there was no going back.

      She would not give up this life—could not give up this life—until he was dead.

      And so…

      On to New Providence.

      CHAPTER THREE

      New Providence

      TO SAY THAT she glittered in the distance would be a stretch. But there she was, big and bawdy, a place where the shouts in the streets were loud enough to be heard from a distance, where many a rogue kept a grand lair in which to exercise his base desires. The wharf was filled with boxes and barrels being loaded and unloaded; ships lay at anchor in the harbor, small boats plying the shallows back and forth between them and the shore. Women, tall and short, their skin of as many colors as their brightly festooned clothing, walked the muddy roads, past storefronts and taverns and huts, most of them nearly a-tumble.

      It was a beautiful day. The ship rested at anchor, gently listing in the bay, beneath a sky that was just kissed by soft white puffs of cloud. The breeze was sweet and clean and caressing, at least out here, where they still lay at ease upon the sea. Logan knew that there were areas of New Providence where little could be called sweet. Slop buckets were tossed out windows, turning the roads to foul mud. And since the populace leaned heavily toward drink, the stale scents of whiskey, rum and beer combined with the fumes of old pipe tobacco to make the resulting stench nauseating.

      But from this distance it all looked merely colorful and exciting, even offering a strange charm with its straightforward, no-apology bawdiness.

      A hand fell on his shoulder. “It’s the isle of thieves, my friend,” Brendan said.

      “Aye, but honest thieves they be, eh?” Logan said.

      “You’ve been here before?”

      “I have.”

      Brendan stepped back, grinning as he looked at him. “What was a fine gentleman such as yourself doing among the riffraff of this island?”

      “Bartering,” Logan told him. He hiked his shoulders and let them fall. “I don’t recall saying that I was a fine gentleman.”

      “Lord Haggerty?”

      “We pronounce it ‘laird,’” he told Brendan wearily.

      Brendan arched a brow, his easy grin still in place. He was a strange enough fellow himself to be a pirate.

      For one thing, his teeth were good.

      Then again, it was passing strange that a shipful of burly outcasts should bathe and do laundry, though one of the toughest-looking of the group, Bill Thornton, known to one and all as Peg-leg, had told him that he found it amazing not to have caught the least fever nor been plagued by scabies since he’d taken up with Captain Red. In fact, the man had confessed, he was looking forward to seeing what soaps he might be able to buy in Nassau.

      But Brendan…

      Interesting man. As interesting as the captain. They were obviously related. Brendan was taller by a good five inches, though the captain—despite the heeled boots—was not short. Brendan stood well over six feet, and had the shoulders of a man who was long accustomed to using his muscles. He was in excellent shape. His features were nowhere near as fine as the captain’s, his eyes a paler blue, his jaw far more square. At times, he brooded. When caught in the act, he was quick with a ribald comment or an off-the-cuff remark. He’d shown himself keenly interested in what was going on in the colonies, his interest greatest regarding the more southern cities, such as Charleston and Savannah.

      He was friendly. And through that friendliness, Logan had come to know the others. Hagar was like a huge watchdog, a burly man, towering over even Brendan and himself. His hands were massive, his thighs were like tree trunks, and his chest could vie with a barrel. But Hagar, too, was a decent enough fellow, with a fine sense of humor. All seemed to worship the captain, rather than just honor Red Robert.

      “As you wish. Laird Haggerty, we are about to make shore. Next boat, my good man.”

      The Eagle, as the ship had been dubbed by the pirates, who had changed her name from that which the previous captain had given her, was equipped with two tenders for loading and unloading supplies and cargo, and also boasted two smaller, sleeker ones. The tenders had headed to shore first, with Hagar in charge, and now the first of them was being lowered for those who would follow, Peg-leg, Brendan, Captain Red and Logan, with another huge crewman, Silent Sam, a strapping Iroquois, at the oars.

      As the men stood there, ready to make the descent, Red Robert made an appearance in customary attire: high black boots, white shirt, brocade vest, black coat, and plumed, low-riding hat. There was a knife set in the flap in each boot, and a low-riding leather belt carried a blunderbuss and a double-barreled pistol. A sword in a leather sheath hung from the same belt.

      Red Robert was prepared.

      “Are you ready for New Providence, Laird Haggerty?” Red Robert asked.

      “I know New Providence,” Logan reminded the pirate captain.

      “But it changes, you see,” the pirate said. “It changes literally with the wind, for the mood of the town follows that of whichever king of thieves is in port.” Red Robert nodded at Brendan.

      “My laird,” Brendan said to Logan, offering a sweeping bow and gesturing him to precede them into the tender.

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