Surrender of a Siren
Page 50

Fitzhugh smiled. “Very well.”
“I want your word. And if you cross me, by God I swear I’ll hunt you down in hell.”
“You have my word. Do I have yours?”
Gray gave him an easy grin. “My word as a gentleman.” He stepped back from the bench and addressed the courtroom. “Everything Captain Mallory testified is the truth.”
An outcry rose up among the men. Fitzhugh banged his gavel to no avail, until Gray motioned for silence.
It took great effort to ignore the look of betrayal in Joss’s eyes. But ignore it he did.
“I hailed the Kestrel as a friendly vessel. I boarded the ship without permission. I took command of her crew. I shot her mast down with a cannon. And I destroyed a large part of her cargo.” Gray ticked off the facts on his fingers. “All truths. If those actions make me a pirate, then I’m a pirate.” Gray spoke over a chorus of objections. “And neither I, nor the honorable Mr. Fitzhugh”—he swept the room with a meaningful glare—“care to hear any argument to the contrary. Do you follow me?”
He looked his men in the eye—O’Shea, Quinn, Levi, Stubb, and all the others, right down to Davy—until they absorbed his meaning and the obedience he demanded. He kept his jaw firm, shoulders squared, gaze unwavering. Not even a blink. The bravado came to him easily enough, when the actual dying was weeks away. There would be time enough later for trembling. Then he would be alone.
He turned back to face the bench. “Now then, Mr. Fitzhugh, you have your pirate. Do you suppose we can conclude these proceedings?”
“Yes, well …” Fitzhugh coughed. “In light of your testimony, Mr. Grayson, which is supported not only by Captain Mallory’s account but by that of your own first mate, Mr. Brackett, I find sufficient cause to hold you on a charge of piracy, a crime against the Crown. Arrangements will be made for your trial.”
The room was silent, save for the cackling laughter of Mallory. “Grayson, I
’m going to dance on the day that you swing.”
“If he swings, I swing with him.” Joss rose to his feet.
Gray drilled his brother with a glare. “Joss, no.” Sit down, damn you.Think of our sister. Think of your son.
“I’m the captain of the Aphrodite.” Joss’s voice rang through the courtroom. “I’m responsible for the actions of her passengers and crew. If my brother is a pirate, then I’m a pirate, too.”
Gray’s heart sank. They would both die now, he and his idiot of a brother. Joss walked to the center of the courtroom, the brass buttons of his captain’s coat gleaming as he strode through a shaft of sunlight. “But I demand a full trial. I will be heard, and evidence will be examined. Logbooks, the condition of the ships, the statements of my crew. If you mean to hang my brother, you’ll have to find cause to hang me.”
Fitzhugh’s eyebrows rose to his wig. “Gladly.”
“And me.”
Gray groaned at the sound of that voice. He didn’t even have to look to know that Davy Linnet was on his feet. Brave, stupid fool of a boy.
“If Gray’s a pirate, I’m a pirate, too,” Davy said. “I helped him aim and fire that cannon, that’s God’s truth. If you hang him, you have to hang me.”
Another chair scraped the floorboards as its occupant rose to his feet.
“And me.”
Oh God. O’Shea now?
“I boarded the Kestrel. I took control of her helm and helped bind that piece of shite.” The Irishman jutted his chin at Mallory. “Suppose that makes me a pirate, too.”
“Very good.” Fitzhugh’s eyes lit with glee. “Anyone else?”
Over by the window, Levi stood. His shadow blanketed most of the room.
“Me,” he said.
“Now, Levi?” Gray pulled at his hair. “Seven years in my employ, you don’t say a single goddamned word, and you decide to speak up now?”
Bloody hell, now they were all on their feet. Pumping fists, cursing Mallory, defending Gray, arguing over which one of them deserved the distinction of most bloodthirsty pirate. It would have been a heartwarming display of loyalty, if they weren’t all going to die.
“You see?” Gray recognized Brackett’s voice. “They’re nothing but lawless brigands, just as I said!”
Fitzhugh banged his gavel over and over, as though he were cobbling together a new bench up there. “Silence!” His voice cracked with the shout.
“Silence, all of you! I will have order!”
Eventually, a lull in the mayhem occurred—not precisely a pause, but rather a collective drawing of breath, that the yelling might continue. The judge took advantage of the moment, leaping to his feet and indiscriminately throwing his gavel into the crowd. This proved a far more effective use of the implement. The screech of pain from Mallory ripped through the chaos, and all swiveled to face its source.
“Anyone”—Fitzhugh’s breath heaved, and his wig was askew—“who participated in the unlawful seizure of the Kestrel will be condemned as a pirate and made to pay with his life. I’ll hang the whole lot of you, you miserable, bloody louts!”
This, Sophia took as her cue.
With a parting squeeze of Miss Grayson’s hand, she stepped into the courtroom. Lifting her voice, she called out, “Then you will have to hang me, too.”
Ah, now it was silent. Only silk and crinoline had the temerity to whisper as she advanced to the center of the courtroom.
My, how she’d missed this. Making an entrance.
Sophia smoothed one gloved hand over her rose silk skirt, guiding it around the furniture. How glad she was now, that she had surrendered trunk space to vanity and brought this gown with her. Extravagant beauty did come in useful, in emergencies such as these.
She felt the men’s stares on her as she glided through the crowd, chin lifted, carriage erect. It was tempting to meet their gazes, favor each of her friends with a warm smile. She resisted, however, saving her practiced debutante’s blush for the only man who mattered.
The pale, gawping man in a wig.
“Your honor,” she said sweetly, holding her skirt out with one hand as she made a smooth curtsy.
“Who … who are you?”
Sophia saw at once Mr. Fitzhugh would serve perfectly. Young and pale; rather unattractive and exceedingly awkward. A man with little confidence or experience where ladies were concerned. Gentlemen of his sort were easily led, easily deceived.
But then, deceit was not her purpose any longer. Today she would finally tell the truth.
“I am Miss Sophia Jane Hathaway, of Kent. And, from what I understand of these proceedings, it would seem that I am a pirate.”
“You, miss. A pirate?”
Sophia toyed with the neckline of her bodice. “You did say that anyone who participated in the seizure of the Kestrel would be hanged as a pirate?”
The judge swallowed, then nodded.
She moved her hand up to stroke the delicate skin of her throat. “My Heavens. Then you shall have to hang me, too. Perhaps my execution will not advance your career as some others’ would, but this is of little consequence in the pursuit of justice. Am I right, your honor?”
“Not at all,” he replied, incongruently nodding in agreement. His gaze jerked up from her throat to her eyes. “Er … that is to say …”
Sophia cocked her head and frowned. “You will need to question me, I presume? Obtain my testimony?”
“Y-yes.”
When the silence proved no questions were forthcoming, she offered,
“Perhaps I should simply begin at the beginning?”
He sighed gratefully. “That would be best.”
“Very well.”
And now—only now—she allowed herself a glance at Gray. She’d done her best to resist looking in his direction, even though his presence had pulled at her like a magnetic force from the moment she’d entered the room. She felt precisely where he was, understood exactly how many degrees she must turn her neck to meet his gaze.
She hadn’t counted on how difficult it would be to turn away. There were a hundred emotions churning in his eyes—questions and accusations, and pleas and promises, too—and now her own eyes welled with tears. Stop this. You have a whole life ahead of you to cry. With a bracing sniff, Sophia turned back to the judge. “Mr. Grayson has given you an accurate, yet incomplete account of events.” She pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and hastily dabbed at her eyes before pressing it to her décolletage. “I hope your honor will permit me to acquaint you with more of the truth.”
Just not quite all of it.
“As I told you, my name is Sophia Jane Hathaway, though the men in this room know me as Jane Turner. My father, Mr. Elias Hathaway, is a gentleman of considerable wealth and modest consequence. I traveled under an assumed name because I left England without his permission. Or knowledge.” Guilt pricked at her heart. The anxiety her family must have endured. Perhaps by now they believed her dead.
Fitzhugh squinted at her through his spectacles. “You were running away?”
She nodded. “I was to be married, you see. To a man I did not love.”
It was clear in the judge’s expression that he did not see. “You were to be married against your wishes. So—logically—you absconded, unescorted, with the aid of these brigands, to the West Indies.” He glared at Gray.
“Perhaps I shall add kidnapping to the charges.”
“Oh, no! You misunderstand.” Sophia chewed her lip. Why was telling the truth so much more complicated than lying? She hardly knew how to explain the reasoning that had taken her from “I cannot marry Toby” to “I must board a ship bound for Tortola.” At the time, it had made some sense to her, in her desperation. Now she saw what anyone in his right mind could see: that she should have simply broken her engagement.
But then, as now, the truth had been so much more difficult than a lie.
“I assure you, neither Captain nor Mr. Grayson knew my true identity. I led them to believe I was a governess, en route to a new post.” Sophia took a step closer to the bench, placed one gloved hand upon the lip of wood and leaned toward him in confidence. Fitzhugh fidgeted with his wig, clearly both unnerved and flattered by her nearness. Very good.
She made her voice breathy and reverent. “Your honor, I sense that you are a man of principle, and ambition. I believe you can understand this, that I sought some greater purpose to my existence. I wanted to experience real life, find my true passion.”
“And did you?” He swallowed. “Find your … er, passion?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled beatifically. “Mr. Grayson showed it to me.”
A low murmur rippled through the courtroom. Sophia ventured a quick glance at Gray. Gone were the accusations and questions in his gaze; all that remained to him was blank confusion. Well, that and his roguish good looks. But to her, everything was finally clear. She’d wanted to experience real life—but how could she, until she ceased running away from it? This was her life, and no one else’s. This was her story to tell, her picture to paint.
“Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said, “may I tell you about the seizure of the Kestrel? I watched it all from the deck of the Aphrodite that day.” At his nod, Sophia continued. “There was a terrible gale. The clouds were churning and green as the sea, and just as the two ships approached, the sky cracked with lightning. It struck the Kestrel’s mainmast, setting the tip afire. With no regard for their own safety, Mr. Grayson and a few of his bravest men boarded the ship to help. Their aim was to aid the Kestrel’s stunned crew in cutting away the mast before the flames reached the deck. But there was no time, and with a hold full of smuggled rum, the ship was certain to explode.”
Mr. Fitzhugh hung on her words, though his eyes seemed fixed to her bosom. “And … ?”