Capturing the Pirate's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 1) Read online

  Capturing the Pirate’s Heart

  By

  Annie Seaton

  The Emerald Quest

  Book 1

  Capturing the Pirate’s Heart

  Copyright © November 2014, Annie Seaton.

  NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  The Emerald Quest

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Acknowledgments

  Working with a group of three other authors separated by distance and in Jane’s case, across the sea, to create a series of books that spans four centuries,

  has been a wonderful experience. The process has been uplifting for me and reaffirmed the bonds between authors working across the world in this digital age.

  Jane Beckenham, Susanne Bellamy and Sara Hantz—you rock!

  Let’s do it again!

  Dedication

  My lifelong love of history has been enriched by reading historical fiction over the years. Authors like Mary Stewart, Sharon Penman Anya Seton and Diana Gabaldon

  are some of the wonderful authors who have fed and nurtured my love of other historical periods, and must be acknowledged as key influences in my writing journey.

  To all of the historical authors I have read and loved over many years, this book is dedicated to you.

  Prologue

  New Orleans 1794

  Josephine du Bois closed the door quietly and stepped into the inner courtyard of the mansion on Rue Toulouse in New Orleans. As the violet sky of dusk deepened into full darkness, the chirping of the cicadas was replaced by the croaking of frogs in the cypress swamp across the garden. The sounds were familiar to her; she would spend many hours in the cemetery which divided the street from the swamp. She waited, her head tilted to the side. The wind lulled and the sounds of the night stopped suddenly, as if the conductor orchestrating the chorus of nature had lowered his baton.

  She would be patient. The night had eyes. Despite the garden being in the center of the sprawling timber building, she must be certain no one was watching when she buried the parcel she clutched tightly to her chest. But fear still gripped her in its cold hands. No matter if the owl perched low in the branches of the magnolia tree spreading across the opening above her head, stared at her with hollow eyes, or the frogs swimming in the ponds on the side of the courtyard sensed her presence. There were no houses to the east as the great conflagration of 1788 had destroyed the stately homes of her neighbors so no human eyes could watch her from high windows as she completed her task.

  Josephine limped across to the circular brick garden and caught her breath as the arthritic pain gripped her hip like a vice. When Francois had claimed this land for them in 1769 and built their home, the Spanish style of an inner courtyard had appealed. It had been in the early days of their marriage when all was well.

  Despite the pain, she smiled. Francois had been trying to keep in favor with the Spanish governor until the cowardly official had fled back to Spain the following year, but the inner garden had served her well in the many years since then. Now the heady fragrance of the late flowering gardenias pleased her, yet her heart ached with memories. The courtyard was the only place she could bear to bury her treasure.

  Her only regret was that she could not tell her family back in England where she was hiding it. The risk of putting the hiding place in writing, and chancing discovery was too great. However, her nephew, Thomas was an educated gentleman. He would surely be able to interpret the cryptic words she had penned in her diary.

  Josephine kneeled in the center of the pavers and bit her lip as the pain shot down her leg. Carefully placing the precious parcel on the ground beside her, she closed her eyes until the pain eased, and raised a shaking hand to wipe the perspiration from her eyes. Earlier in the day she had innocently placed a small wooden-handled dibber in her gardening basket next to the wrought iron gate, and instructed the slave who labored in the garden to leave the small spade beside the fountain. It was not unusual, as Josephine had spent many hours in the garden over the past five years. Since Francois and Ivan had died, her garden, her memories, and visiting the cemetery had filled her days.

  The pavers in the center of the ornate indoor garden were spaced more widely than those around the outside edge and she leaned forward, testing the movement of them with her fingers. The brick moved a little and she sighed with relief as she reached for the dibber.

  This garden held many precious memories for her, and it was not only the privacy that had led her to choose it as a safe place to hide her parcel. The first time she had seen Ivan, she had been on her knees tending this very garden. Francois had frowned at the sight of his wife on her knees digging in the dirt like a slave. When she had become aware he was not alone on that fateful day, she had lifted her gaze to meet the hooded eyes of the dark-haired man standing beside her husband.

  A sob caught in her throat as she pushed the narrow end of the dibber beneath the paving brick and lifted it slowly. She picked it up and turned it over and placed it on the low wall of the edge of the fountain in front of her. Not even the worms writhing in the soil could distract her from her mission.

  She must ensure it was well hidden. Josephine held scant regard for what may happen to her but she had promised Ivan she would keep it safe. The promise she had made him before he had died had stayed with her, and the events of the past week had confirmed his last words to her.

  They will come.

  It had been five years, but someone must have finally noticed the necklace that graced her neck in the portrait in La Salle Conde Theater. Dear Francois had believed it was a family heirloom from her Bellerose great-grandmother, and she had worn it in the portrait he had commissioned. She’d not been able to disillusion him with the truth.

  For two hours she toiled through the still of the night. By the time she had removed the pavers and dug a deep hole, the skin on her fingers was rubbed raw and bleeding, and burning pain sliced through her back. Finally the hole was deep enough, and she set the small spade aside.

  Easing up slowly from her haunches, she straightened, taking in deep breaths until the pain faded. The parcel sat on the ground next to the dibber but Josephine couldn’t bring herself to pick it up yet, knowing it would be the last time she would see it. The final connection to Ivan would be broken. A deep ache, which was not physical, filled her chest and her vision clouded with unshed tears. She brushed them away impatiently.

  I have the rest of my life to shed tears.

  She moved slowly across to a large bentwood chest near the door where she had made her preparations
earlier in the week. The leather straps came away easily and she reached in for the ceramic crock and lifted it out. She carried it carefully across to the low wall next to the fountain and removed the stopper, before reaching in and retrieving the small Welsh tin box that Francois had brought home from one of his trips to Philadelphia. It fitted into the bottom of the crock perfectly.

  Finally Josephine turned to the parcel and stared at it for a long while, before opening the wax-coated linen cloth. She allowed the tears to fall as she slowly pushed the stiff fabric aside while the merry tinkling of the water seemed to mock her sadness.

  At last everything was ready. She would allow herself one last look before she wrapped the cloth around it, ready to place it inside the crock and bury it deep beneath the pavers. Spreading the cloth on the low wall beside the fountain, she arranged the contents in the circle which had graced her throat in years gone by.

  As Josephine stared down, the clouds cleared the moon through the magnolia tree above and a dazzling rainbow danced across the trickling water of the fountain as a necklace of twenty eight brilliant emeralds surrounded by a myriad of diamonds caught the light from the full moon.

  Chapter One

  New Orleans

  September 1796

  Even after a decade at sea, Sébastien Leclerc was no closer to understanding the appeal of living on the ocean. Unlike his crew, who understood becoming a sailor meant uprooting their life and spending most of their time at sea, Sébastien was not enamored with a mariner’s life. Because of the lucrative rewards, it attracted a mix of men who seemed to ignore the high risk of ending up on the bottom of the ocean floor.

  One more mission, one last intercept, and Sébastien’s dream of going to Hawaii to start his own sugar plantation would come to fruition. Over the years the guilt he had borne for Lisette’s death had lessened, and Sébastien accepted that his actions had merely been those of a young man in love…or lust. Lisette’s father had been a wealthy sugar merchant, and she had been spoiled with everything she could want in life— except her independence. She had enticed Sébastien to assist her in her quest to flee her stern father. Sébastien’s desire had blinded him to the dangers of a young woman walking alone through Santo Domingo in the dead of night. He had agreed to meet her at the wharf to travel to New Orleans but she had been kidnapped before he had arrived. It was believed she had been taken by one of the pirate captains in the town and her father had held him responsible.

  One more mission, one more month and if all went to plan, his life would change. He would be away from this life where he witnessed servitude and despair every day. One thing Sébastien promised himself, his plantation would be worked by free men. Maybe, just maybe, the scars of the past, and Lisette’s fate would leave him and he could settle and raise a family.

  Time heals. Sébastien closed his eyes. He could almost hear the voice of Lucy, the old, dark-skinned cook on their plantation back in Santo Domingo. When Lisette had been taken by the slave traders as she had waited for him at the harbor, and had died on the vessel, he had thought his own life had come to an end. His poor choices as a very young man had led to the death of the young woman he’d loved.

  As the winter months drew closer, the increasing cold of the salt-laden breeze warned of the icy winds which would follow. It was time to take safe haven in the harbor and embellish his reputation in the taverns along the Mississippi delta where his half-brother, Jean-Luc, ran the headquarters of the family commercial business in the Rue Royale in New Orleans. It was also well past time to pay his brother a visit; he had avoided him on his past two stays in port. Sébastien was close to having enough gold put away to escape this duty he loathed.

  A visit, one more mission and freedom to pursue his own life.

  A sudden gust snapped the sails and the pungent aroma of damp wood surrounded him. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he longed for a breeze free of salt, and ground that stood firm beneath his feet.

  “Captain?”

  Sébastien opened his eyes and swiveled around. The soft voice of one of the slaves they had seized from a British slave trader this voyage interrupted his musing. “You have turned the ship to the land?”

  Sébastien nodded. “Yes, it is time to trade our cargo.”

  “And what of us?” The man’s voice was uncertain. “Shall we be traded also?”

  Sébastien shrugged and looked the man up and down. There were fifteen slaves on the ship and none knew the true purpose of his business. They assumed they would be put to work on one of the sugar plantations in Louisiana.

  To all onlookers, apart from his crew, Sébastien was a river captain, plying his trade between the sugar plantations on the Mississippi River. The presence of slaves on his vessel when they berthed fuelled the rumors that the Leclerc brothers were somehow involved in the slave trade. No one knew of their true business apart from the governor and his aide-de-camp. Even Jean-Luc was not privy to the details of the missions of the vessel he owned jointly with his half-brother. Secrecy was of the essence and the impact of their successful forays was beginning to be felt.

  He’d heard the rumors. The latest scuttlebutt from the taverns on the Louisiana coast explained the occasional disappearance of their trader from the regular river trade. They told of Sébastien and his crew marauding the seas between the Delta and the Gulf, seizing bounty as they went; both cargo and slaves, and trading the bounty once they got to the colonies. It was far from the truth and the slaves they rescued as they plied their trade to the British West Indies were either sent back to Africa, or given a choice as soon as they docked in New Orleans. It was a town where those of colored, quadroon and mulatto heritage lived. Sometimes they chose to stay on his vessel and work the sugar trade. Under the new Spanish law called coartación, they could even buy their freedom. It was the least he could do to end the slave trade he abhorred.

  The problem was Jean-Luc, his half-brother, who was more concerned with increasing his wealth than worrying about the fate of a few men…slaves or otherwise. Jean-Luc was the progeny of a brief, illicit liaison Sébastien’s mother had tried to hide. Jeannie, their mother, had told the truth about Jean-Luc’s father on her death bed, but Jean-Luc had been raised in the household in San Domingo.

  Much to Sébastien’s disgust, the slave trade in Louisiana had become more lucrative over the past few months due to the growth of the cotton plantations after the invention of the cotton gin and he doubted whether Jean-Luc would agree to him keeping these fifteen men on his ship. They had refitted the two hundred ton Spanish square rigger during the last stay in Barataria Bay and it was in need of more crew. It would suit him well to take on some more strong men, if they were willing to work for him. He was intending to have a frank discussion with the Spanish governor about the nature of Jean-Luc’s intentions. He had a meeting with Carondelet this very night and he knew the intelligence he had to report would not be well received.

  In the meantime he must sort the current situation and placate his brother. Of prime importance was the retrieval of the money owing to him by both the governor, and his half-brother, before the inevitable falling out with Jean-Luc.

  Now the man in front of him stood still and straight, and bowed his head respectfully. His African black skin glistened in the sunlight. Sébastien narrowed his eyes. He never trusted; who knew what this man had heard.

  “And what would you have me do with you and your friends?” It was an opportunity to embellish his reputation. The more people who were wary of him and his crew, and wondered about their true activities, suited him. “Mayhap I am in need of a strong crew when we continue our travels? There are some fine ships filled with enticing cargo down in the Gulf. Perhaps you would prefer to stay on my ship than toil in the sugar fields of the colonies?”

  The merchant ship they had seized had been en route to England, and he had generously allowed it to continue after removing a little of its sugar cargo as well as the fifteen slaves.

  “Yes, we are strong and t
he ‘Maiden’ is a beautiful ship.” The man lifted his head and held his gaze.

  “Your language is of a high standard for a captured slave?” He frowned at the African man.

  “My friends and I were merchants in Accra on the Gold Coast but we were kidnapped by the rogue slave traders. They gave no thought to who they captured. As long as they fill their slave markets with men who are strong and can toil, they pay no heed.”

  Sébastien’s interest was piqued. “So how did you get on the British ship and arrive in the American colonies?”

  The tall man looked at him without answering and Sébastien turned away. It was bad enough for the man that he was here away from all he knew. He would interrogate him no further.

  Good Christ, he hated this slave trade with a passion and the sooner he could end his current intelligence work, the better. Sébastien turned and stared across the prow of the boat as the crew toiled with the sails. Seaman were perched in the rigging and held hands to shield their eyes in the bright sunlight. The command to turn back to Bay St Louis had been issued and they were keen to return to the land, to frequent the taverns.

  “Yes, the “Maiden’ is a fine vessel.” He turned away from the man, ignoring his words about his capture. “I shall advise you of your fate when we dock.”

  Chapter Two

  Madeleine Bellerose pressed her fingers to the cool glass of the window and stared out over the green lawn surrounding the family manor. The glass was latticed with diamond panels of soft lead and if she squeezed her eyes half-shut and distorted her vision, she could pretend that the carriage coming across the small bridge at the end of the quarter mile driveway carried Mother and Father home from one of their visits to the nearby village of Danesthorpe. She scrunched her eyes shut to stop the hot tears from sliding down her cheek. Ever since she had been a little girl Father had brought her pretty ribbons from the haberdashers, and Mother would frown and tell him he spoiled his only daughter. Now that she was a young woman, Madeleine had still enjoyed his loving gifts.