Bite of the Vampire: A Vampire Romance (Blood Brotherhood Book 7)
Author: Guida, ML
Date: 2019-08-23

Bite of the Vampire

ML Guida

Copyright © 2019 by ML Guida

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Dear Reader

About the Author

Also by ML Guida

Chapter 1

Savannah, Georgia

1756

Rosalind woke to another miserable day. She sighed and ran her fingers down the left side of her face, feeling the deep bumpy scars that labeled her a monster. Only her eye remained unscathed. She refused to have a mirror anywhere in the room that reminded her of the fire––the day her father perished saving her.

Ignoring the birds chirping their happy morning tune, she rolled out of bed. She seized a tan leather mask off her nightstand that hid her scars and quickly tied it under her dark hair, hiding her unsightly scars. Yesterday she had walked pass a woman with two small children when her masked slipped off, revealing her naked face. The children had screamed, then hid behind their mother’s skirts. Rosalind was shaking so bad she could barely fix her mask.

Her fingers brushed over the pinched and leathery skin. Like those children, she couldn’t help but shudder. The mask almost matched the color of her golden skin and sometimes people didn’t notice it. Or at least she tried to believe they hadn’t noticed.

She opened her dresser drawer then pushed away her shifts to find a faded, brown leather bag that had seen better days. The black edges were curled and frayed, but she didn’t care. She cherished it more than any other possession––it had been her late father’s. He’d worn it when he saved her from the fire.

She quietly dumped the coins inside it onto the wooden dresser. With Esmond Doyle, her stepfather, watching her constantly, it had taken her months to steal enough to barely purchase a dress. She sighed. At this rate, it would take her a year to secure passage out west and escape.

Someone timidly knocked on the door. “Rosalind, are you up?”

Rosalind quickly scooped the coins back into the bag, then placed it back under her clothes. “Yes, I am awake, Maggie. You can come inside.”

Her cousin, Maggie, slowly entered, as if afraid she was intruding. She was a mulatto and had the creamiest tan skin that reminded Rosalind of syrup. Maggie’s father had been a merchant and her mother a freed slave, but they were killed on a riverboat. She came to live with them, and like Rosalind, she was forced to earn her keep, but she was able to work at the house.

Not so Rosalind.

Her stepfather considered her to be a burden and insisted she earn her keep by working in his dreaded tavern––the Pirate’s House Inn.

Maggie poured water into the basin and dipped a cloth in it.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Maggie. I can dress myself.”

“I know,” she said, as she wiped Rosalind’s body down. “But I feel guilty that I get to work here in the house while you’re forced to work in that dreaded tavern. At least ´tis a beautiful morning, Rosalind.”

“Looks like it will be. Has Mr. Doyle left for the day?” Hope swelled inside her that she wouldn’t have to face her glowering stepfather.

“No, both he and your mother are taking their morning meal in the parlor.”

Rosalind groaned, knowing she’d soon have to join them and listen to more of stepfather’s insults.

Maggie helped her put on her corset and stays. She pulled tight on the strings, making Rosalind’s already narrow waist even narrower and pushing her breasts up. Rosalind’s shift had deep pockets where she secretly squirreled coins away from her stepfather’s prying eyes. If he found her savings, he’d quickly confiscate it and all hope of escaping would perish.

Maggie pulled out one of Rosalind’s dull olive gowns that her stepfather made her wear because ´twas easy to clean and would hide any stains. The dress emphasized her large breasts, which according to him were her only fine assets, since they enticed men to spend more coin on draughts.

Rosalind put her slippers on over her tired and swollen feet. She’d soaked them in a bowl of water, but they still ached. Last night, she’d been so busy that she could barely catch her breath. Tonight would be no different. Just once, she’d like to escape the tavern and have a full day of rest.

She put on her silk petticoats, then Maggie helped her slip into the dreaded gown. She carefully tucked Rosalind’s hair into a lace cap, hiding her dark curls. Rosalind looked at her dreary prison garb that marked her as even less than a maid, but until she had a means to escape, she was trapped.

Before she followed Maggie, she slipped her father’s gold watch into her pocket. It hadn’t worked for years––the glass was shattered, and one side was badly scorched. But she didn’t care. Her father had been wearing it the day he tried to rescue her. Rosalind always hid it on her person. When she wore it, she always felt he was near her.

She followed Maggie out of her room to face her stepfather and her mother in the parlor. Her mother gave her a bright smile.

“Good morning, dear,” she said.

Mr. Doyle didn’t acknowledge her when she entered, and instead, concentrated on buttering a croissant.

Her mother, dressed in a fine gown of yellow, got up from the table and hurried over. She hugged her then kissed her on her right cheek. Even her own mother shuddered at her scars.

“Rosalind,” she said, “I have the most wonderful news.” Her voice was as giddy as a schoolgirl’s.

Rosalind turned her mouth up into a tight sneer. “You’re both going to Europe again?”

Only when her stepfather was away, did she have any peace.

“No! You aren’t going to have work at Pirate’s House Inn any longer!” She clapped her hands together, and her blue eyes flared with excitement.

Rosalind glanced warily at her stepfather, who stuffed another croissant into his mouth then proceeded to lick the tips of his fingers. As always, he dressed as if he were a wealthy aristocrat with his embroidered red jacket, vest, and breeches. Many people commented on how handsome he was with his gray eyes, white powdered wig, and muscular build, but all Rosalind saw was a hated tyrant.

He wiped his hands over his plate then dabbed each end of his mouth with a napkin. “Your mother is quite right, Rosalind. I have actually found a suitor that will take you off my hands.”

“Esmond!” Her mother frowned. “That’s not what he meant, dear,” she said as she rubbed Rosalind’s arm.

Rosalind jerked away from her mother’s touch and pretended not to notice the hurt in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s exactly what he meant. Who?”

He leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly. “Captain Barnard Foster.”

His low voice stripped her dream. Captain Barnard Foster was at least ten years older than Mr. Doyle and had a temper even fouler––if that was possible. He was riddled with the pox and had the most annoying habit of staring at her breasts rather than her face.

Her stomach tied into triple knots. “Why?”

“He’s a good match, Rosalind,” her mother pleaded.

Rosalind squinted. “How could you say that, Mother? Do you hate me this much?”

“No, dear. Of course not! Captain Foster is a wealthy man, and you’ll want for nothing.”

“Why would he lower himself to marry a tavern wench?”

Her stepfather straightened his cuffs. “Because he would find it advantageous to eventually gain the tavern if something were to happen to me, then he’d be entitled to all of it.”

Rosalind glared. “I will not marry him. He’s pompous and selfish.” He wasn’t fooling her. Something would happen to Barnard, then she’d be next. Her stepfather would do anything to further himself socially.

“You don’t have a choice.” He narrowed his eyes, and his voice had turned cold.

He was dangerously close to losing his temper, but Rosalind didn’t care. “I’d rather be dead than marry such a horrible man. If you would have chosen a man of decency––”

He slammed his hand down on the table, making the silver bounce. “No man of decency would have you!”

Rosalind winced.

“Esmond,” her mother said. “That’s not true.”

“´Tis true, Clare. You know it is. Captain Foster is asking for a minimal dowry–”

Rosalind lifted her chin. “I said I would not marry him.”

Her stepfather jumped out of his chair and slowly walked over to her. His movements were always slow and meticulous before the storm.

“Please, don’t hurt her, Esmond,” her mother pleaded. Tears glistened in her eyes. “She’s in shock.”

“No,” he said quietly. “She’s not.”

Rosalind glared. “Mother, stay out of this. You’re as bad as he is.”

He grabbed her arm. “You will do as I say.”

Rosalind pushed her fear down to her toes. “No.”

He slapped her hard across her face, knocking her onto her knees. Pain exploded on the right side of her cheek, and wetness rolled down her chin. She bit back a sob.

Her mother knelt next to her and used her sleeve to wipe the blood off Rosalind’s lip. “Darling, don’t you understand? Barnard Foster is old. He’s not well. You’ll inherit his wealth.”

Her stepfather looked at his well-manicured fingernails. “Clare, Foster and I have an agreement. When he dies, his wealth belongs to me.”

Her mother stopped dabbing Rosalind’s lips. “How could you do such a thing?”

Rosalind gently put her mother’s hand down. “Isn’t it clear, Mother? He hates me.”

Her stepfather raised an eyebrow but didn’t counter her. He looked at Rosalind. “Your wedding will be announced, and you’ll be married by the end of this month.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He shook her until her teeth rattled. “Defy me, and I’ll have you flogged and locked up until your wedding.” He tossed her across the room. “Go to work. I have no desire to look upon your repulsive face.”

Before she left for the tavern, Rosalind glanced at her mother, who averted her eyes, and as always, offered no protection. Just once, Rosalind would like to see her mother get angry at Mr. Doyle for hurting her, but she never did. Her mother’s refusal to help cut into Rosalind’s heart more than her stepfather’s words or fists.

Chapter 2

Zuto’s Island

June 1671

* * *

“Don’t let him kill me,” Penelope the undine said, as she pulled on her arm to escape Phearson MacFie’s tight grasp. Her tangled white hair fell across her frightened blue eyes.

His gut twisted at her plea.

Penelope was a water elemental and had the power to turn anything to ice, but the enchanted manacles bound her powers.

“Phearson, if the spider bites me, the demon will drink my blood. He’ll be able to escape. Is that what you want?”

The demon desperately needed Penelope’s blood to break his god Maketabori’s binding spell, which kept him prisoner on the island. Betraying Zuto was treacherous.

“No. I am sorry, my lady, but I have my orders.” Zuto’s freedom was the last phenomenon he wanted. Dread settled in his heart at the thought of the demon walking the Earth. No one would be safe.

Zuto pointed at Penelope. “Seize and bite her.”

His gigantic time spider that was as big as a small schooner slowly approached. Its fangs clamped back and forth, and their image reflected in its eight, glossy black eyes.

Phearson shuddered and pitied the lass.

“Phearson, please!” She twisted her body as if she were strong enough to break a vampire’s grip.

Then, all hell exploded on the island. Cannons boomed. Palm trees burst into flames. Fire burned hotter, and smoke swirled around them. The heat of the flames drenched Phearson’s body, leaving his shirt sticking to his skin. His eyes watered and his heart beat faster.

A dragon unleashed its fury, and flames ignited on the beach, separating the spider from Phearson and Penelope, giving him time to think. His instincts to save himself sparked, but for the first time, he hesitated. He had a choice: hand over Penelope to the demon Zuto or die.

Phearson had grown to admire her courage and hated to think he would be responsible for her death. He wanted to unlock her manacles around her wrists and ankles, but he wasn’t a hero–he was a slave.

Disobeying Captain Quinton Palmer meant being thrown into the bowels of the Fiery Damsel. He’d never betrayed Palmer before. Not because he felt any loyalty but because of his will to survive.

“I didn’t want this to happen, but there’s nothing I can do.”

He waited for her to admonish or spit on him.

She stared at him, and pity replaced the terror in her eyes. “I forgive you. Do what you have the courage to do.”

Confusion settled over him. She hadn’t called him a coward, but ´twas as if she looked into his soul and saw his shameful fear.

He opened his mouth to answer her, but the Soaring Phoenix unleashed its guns, and cannon balls sailed through the air and ripped the Fiery Damsel’s sails, silencing his voice. Fire broke out on the deck, and his fellow crewmen scrambled to put out the flames. The Damsel’s hull and sails were pelted with holes while the Soaring Phoenix had little damage. ´Twas as if an invisible force protected the Phoenix.

He wished he was on board the ship fighting the Phoenix rather than on the beach ready to hand over an innocent woman to a demon. Hadn’t he any honor left?

“MacFie, Bring the girl.” Palmer yelled, as he motioned with his sword.

With his leaky right eye that always left a stain of dribble in his red beard, Palmer always gave Phearson the chills. He was a giant of man and was at least five inches taller than Phearson. More than once, Phearson had felt the lash on his back.

Something he didn’t want to experience again.

But he glanced warily at Penelope. She lifted her head in defiance. Her stance of bravery didn’t fool him. He could feel her trembling beneath his strong grip. Doubt was settling into him over whether he could be as callous as his captain just to save his own yellow skin.

He reluctantly escorted her toward Zuto. Dried blood and bruises covered the demon’s half-naked body, and the beads on his loin cloth glistened in the sun. Victory flashed in his red eyes.

The wind blew the demon’s long black hair across his face, and he raised his hand and pointed. “Bring her.” He waved his hand, and the flames separating them doused.

Desperate to escape, Penelope twisted her waist and dug her heels into the sand. His grip loosened.

Phearson shook his head. “Stop. Ye need to stay close. If ye want to stay alive.”

She glared. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I am yer only hope.”

The time spider scurried toward them, cutting a screaming man in two with its long spindly legs. Blood burst through his lips and gore stuck to the spider’s leg.

Guns exploded, and cannon balls pounded the beach. A ring of fire cut into the spider’s path. It shrieked and sat back on its back legs, its fangs clamping together. Phearson shoved Penelope behind him.

Once again, Zuto lifted his palms toward the flames, and they slowly died down.

The ground quaked, and Phearson fell onto one knee, dragging Penelope down with him. A loud crack spread across the beach like lightning, and another giant spider, this one white, crawled out.

“Shite,” Phearson mumbled, as he and Penelope edged backward.

Someone yanked Phearson’s head back so hard he thought it would break.

Penelope screamed. He turned to see Palmer dragging her.

“Here, you foul thing, take her,” Palmer said.

Phearson brought his forearm down hard, breaking Palmer’s grip.

Palmer’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”

Before the captain could react, Phearson flung him onto the ground. Palmer catapulted face-first under the beast’s legs, his arms and legs spread out wide. There would be hell to pay later, but Phearson didn’t care.

Palmer glared. “Phearson, you bastard!” His tone was edgy and sprinkled with anger.

The beast didn’t even slow down and walked over Palmer, who aimed a pistol at the creature’s underbelly, his hand shaking.

“Palmer, you fool.” Zuto flicked his wrist, and the pistol flew out of Palmer’s hand.

Shock and fear flashed in Palmer’s eyes. Suddenly, he rose into the air as if by magic and was flung across the beach, straight into the jungle, screaming.

Phearson grabbed a skeleton key out of his trousers. His hand shaking, he unlocked Penelope’s manacles. She looked at him stunned.

He pushed her to get her to move. “Go, now!”

Zuto swayed on his feet. “Take her!”

The spider scurried through the smoke.

Phearson blocked Penelope with his body from the terrifying spider, then fired at it. “Leave her alone!”

The shot nicked the spider’s fang. The creature kicked him so hard he soared into the air, then he slammed onto the ground. The ground crumbled, and he slowly sank as if he were caught in quicksand. He frantically grabbed at the sand, but dirt and debris slipped through his fingers.

The white spider scurried after him, then the walls caved in; sand crashed onto his body, blinding him.

He fell into cold blackness, screaming. His arms and legs flailed around him, and air rushed over him, chilling his blood. He choked on debris and stretched out his hands to break his fall but touched emptiness.

Suddenly, sticky strands covered his body and bounced him around. He broke loose and was hurled into a mindless void, terrified the spider would rip him apart. Blackness turned to gray, gray turned to white, white turned to blue–he burst through the sky and plunged toward the calm blue sea.

He splashed into the water, and pain rippled through him, stealing his breath. Water filled his lungs, his vision blurred, and panic surged through him. He clawed his way to the top then burst through the surface, gulping down sea water. His lungs burned, threatening to burst. As he bobbed up and down, he moved his arms across the top of the water and kicked his legs hard until he wasn’t sucking down half the sea.

Instead of salt staining his lips, he realized it had been fresh water, but that wasn’t the only thing that was different. He wasn’t in the middle of the deep blue sea. He was in a wide river and looked across its banks to find a port and a bustling town he didn’t recognize.

He heard a plop behind him and turned around to see an alligator swimming toward him, staring at him with sinister eyes. If it got him in a death roll, it would be powerful enough to rip off his head.

His heart beating wildly, he drew on his vampire strength and swam as fast as he could to a pier. He grabbed the edge of the wooden pier, then using the last of his momentum, he swung himself up. He landed on his back hard and coughed up water again and again.

“Ye damn bloody fool,” a grizzled man said. He held a fishing pole in one hand. “Ye damn near scared away the fish.”

Phearson rolled onto his side and gasped for air. “Where the hell am I?”

The old man shook his head. “Ye drunken eejit.”

Phearson was in no mood for the man’s lecture, and in a flash, snagged his thin arm. “Tell me, where am I?”

The man’s face whitened, and he dropped his fishing pole into the river. “Yer eyes! Ye’re a vampire. How can this be? Ye’re out in the sun. The Pious Twelve said the devil only lets bloodsuckers out at night!” He slapped Phearson’s hand repeatedly.

Phearson grabbed the man’s gnarled hand. “Apparently, they were wrong. I am an exceptional vampire. I suggest ye tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let ye live.”

The man had wrinkles on top of wrinkles. He nodded his head up and down wordlessly, his loose skin flapping.

Phearson leaned closer. “Who are the Pious Twelve?”

“Don’t kill me.”

“Then answer my question.”

The old man licked his thin lips. “Vampire killers.”

Phearson raised an eyebrow. “´Tis not easy for a mere mortal to kill an immortal.”

“Please, I am not one of them.”

Phearson’s head was still swimming, and he cursed Zuto’s time spider for dumping him someplace where there were supposed vampire killers. He ran his hand through his thick wet hair. “Where the blazes am I?”

“Ye’re in Savannah.”

“Savannah?”

“Georgia.”

“I am in the Americas?” ´Twas supposed to be a desolate, barbaric place, but from what Phearson saw, it looked like a bustling port city.

“Aye, ye daft eejit.”

“Has the Fiery Damsel or Soaring Phoenix made port?”

“Never heard of ‘em.”

“If they made port, you would have. What year is it?

“Tis seventeen fifty-six.”

Phearson slowly released his grip as he grappled with the fact he was almost a hundred years into the future. How would he get back? Or did he want to get back? He was tired of being a slave. But who were the vampires here? Had either of the crews made it here? Was Quinton Palmer slugging around the town?

He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Too many questions plodded around in his sluggish mind.

The wizened man jumped to his feet as quickly as a man of his age could and hobbled down the pier. Phearson dully wondered if he was going to tell this Pious Twelve that another vampire had entered their town.

Sailors were slugging supplies of chickens, goats, fruit, vegetables, and dried meat over their shoulders and carrying them up planks to frigates and schooners. Phearson forced himself to stand, but his legs wobbled, and dizziness swam in his head. Panic flared in his heart, but he hardened his features and walked toward town, hoping he didn’t have to face the Pious Twelve.

He brushed his hair out of his face. He was surprised his sword and pistol were still intact. If he wanted, he could ask to join one of the motley crews, but bitterness rolled over his tongue at the thought of being a slave again.

This time, he wanted to command a ship and sail the seas a free man. But to be captain, he’d need enough money to bribe a crew to mutiny against their captain and elect him. Pirates were not a loyal lot.

Except for the crew of the Soaring Phoenix. He couldn’t understand their loyalty to Captain Kane O’Brien, since his own crew lived in constant fear of Palmer.

Weariness sank into his muscles, and he needed a place to rest. His stomach growled, and he was surprisingly hungry and thirsty. He could feast on blood, but he wanted a mug of mead and something solid to fill his belly.

He put his hand on a street lamp to steady himself. Savannah was obviously not as populated or as advanced as London, but nevertheless, it had stores, markets, and taverns. He had no coin, but he smiled. That didn’t matter. He’d been an excellent pickpocket in London before he’d been forced to join Palmer’s crew. He’d eat tonight.

A well-dressed man wearing a tall hat and tailed coat cast him a sour look. Phearson noticed the bulge in the man’s front pocket and walked leisurely behind him. The man stopped in front of a shop to look at some books that were displayed. Phearson slid next to him, then with a slick motion, stuck his hand inside the man’s pocket and relieved him of his coin pursed. He’d been able to do this since he was twelve, and the mark was never the wiser. Being a vampire made it even easier.

He strolled down the walkway with the purse tucked inside his shirt, then climbed a hill to rows of taverns and shops. A woman crossed the street, maneuvering between carriages. She wore a cap that was supposed to cover her unruly brown curls, but ´twas the leather mask on the left side of her face that intrigued him. Even with the mask on, it couldn’t shield her natural beauty. She had huge brown eyes and creamy tanned skin. He’d always preferred women that weren’t afraid to be out in the sun.

Intrigued, he followed her into a white-painted tavern with a sign over the doorway that read Pirate’s House Inn. The little lass hurried over to the bartender and put on an apron.

He slid onto a wooden bench and waited patiently for her to attend him. He took out the stolen purse and pulled out slips of paper rather than coins. Strange. Not knowing how much they were worth, he put most of them back except for one. He didn’t want to overpay for mead and a hot meal.

She came over to him, and he thought she was even prettier up close–except for a cut on her lip that had begun to swell. Someone had struck the sweet lass, marring her perfect skin. Dark strands of hair escaped from the cap that softened her face. He couldn’t help but notice the moons of her breasts that peeked over her scooped neckline, tempting a man’s honor.

She smiled. “Would you like a plate and a pint?”

By her English accent, he thought she’d come from Manchester.

“Aye, I would, lassie. That would do nicely.”

She turned, and her skirt fluttered up in the air, giving him a glimpse of a slender ankle. Soon, she brought him a pint of ale and a hot plate of potatoes and a slab of meat swimming in gravy. He dipped fresh baked bread in the gravy and was pleased by how well the simple fare tasted. It had been some time since the Damsel had been at shore, and the cook’s food on board was another stint of torture.

The lass worked hard and bustled the tables. The other wenches seemed more interested in flirting with customers rather than wiping down a table or taking away dirty dishes. Maybe they needed help here. For once, he could earn honest wages.

Chapter 3

Rosalind brought another pint to the handsome, but odd, stranger who’d followed her into the tavern. His clothes had been stuck to his muscular body as if he’d gone for a swim in the Savannah River. But as the night wore on, his clothes had dried, and his long hair had curled at the ends. He watched her intently with blue eyes that were almost clear, as if she could look down into his soul. The candle light flickered off a gold earring dangling from his right ear, and he wore a pistol and a sword on each hip, so he was obviously a pirate, but he’d been nothing but polite toward her. He sat quietly at a table in a corner, slowly sipping a draught.

She walked over to him. “Would you like another?”

He flashed her a smile that melted her insides. “Another would do fine, lassie.” He looked around the busy tavern. “I noticed yer busy and havena had a break. Would the owner be interested in hiring another hand?”

She blinked in surprise. “You’re looking for work?”

“That I am. Do they need help here?”

She tilted her head toward the back where her stepfather sat with her dreaded betrothed, Captain Barnard Foster. Unlike the attention she gave this handsome pirate, she’d avoided going near their table and allowed one of the other girls to wait on them. Earlier, she’d put ice on her lip to reduce the swelling and had no intention of having her stepfather beat her again. “He’s sitting in the back of the room surveying the place. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

He shrugged. “Doesna hurt to ask.”

He walked back to the table that was in the opposite corner. Rosalind turned and waited on the other customers, who, unlike her pirate, were deep into their cups. One burly man slobbered and grabbed her arm and forced her into his lap. He leered down her dress and tried to kiss her.

She shoved at his chest. “Release me, you brute.”

He laughed and squeezed her breast hard. “Why are ye so rude to old Bert? I need a warm lass to make me smile.”

She slapped him across the face and threw his draught into his disgusting face. “Leave me alone.”

All of sudden, she was on her feet, and the tip of a sword was under the man’s chin.

“The lady asked ye to leave her alone.”

Rosalind’s eyes widened. ´Twas her handsome pirate.

“She’s a tavern wench,” the man slurred.

“I said to leave her alone. Otherwise, yer mead will spill out yer gullet.”

Rosalind gave her rescuer a grateful smile. No man had defended her like he. He wasn’t looking at her, but glaring at her molester, then she noticed his eyes. One minute they were a clear blue, then his eyes darkened to a deep red. She had to be imagining it and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was wrong. Lord, she must be tired, damn tired.

The man held up his shaking arms. “I don’t want no trouble with ye.”

“Good.” Her rescuer lowered his sword.

The drunk quickly got to his feet and stumbled toward the bar.

“Thank you,” Rosalind said, still astonished anyone would come to her aid. “No one has ever done that before.”

“Get used to it. I’ll be back tomorrow. My name is MacFie. Phearson MacFie. And yer bonnie name is?”

Heat warmed Rosalind’s cheeks. “I’m Rosalind Gill. Once again, thank you. Did Mr. Doyle hire you?”

“Aye.” He bowed slightly. “Until tomorrow night, Rosalind Gill.”

He left her. As he moved, she noticed he was taller, his shoulders broader, than most of the men in the crowded room.

Rosalind gathered up the empty glasses and put them on her tray. She hurried back to the kitchen, still trying to comprehend that the handsome stranger had come to her defense. Then she noticed Captain Foster and Mr. Doyle had their arms intertwined with her attacker’s.

“Where are ye takin’ me?” the man slurred. “I didn’t mean any harm.” He could barely walk, and one knee gave out.

“To get you some fresh air,” Captain Foster said. His voice held a sinister chill.

They dragged the man down a poorly lit corridor outside of the kitchen, which was strange because Rosalind had lit the lanterns earlier herself. Someone had turned them down. And why was there a rickety chair next to a wall?

“Let’s get him down the tunnel before the bloke starts hollering,” Mr. Doyle grunted.

Rosalind wasn’t sure she’d heard right. She’d heard rumors of tunnels built underneath the tavern, but her stepfather had always denied them when she asked.

She hid in the shadows, unable to stop from following them. Suddenly, the man was thrown onto the chair.

“What are ye doin’?” he asked as he swayed back and forth.

Captain Foster pulled out a small club hidden in his jacket. “Sending you on a merry trip.” He smacked the man across the head, and the poor man passed out.

Mr. Doyle reached up and pulled down on a lantern that actually moved. The floor flipped open, and the man and chair disappeared. Rosalind gasped and immediately put her hand over her mouth.

“Who’s there?” her stepfather cried.

But Rosalind had vanished into the kitchen, and she prayed he hadn’t seen her. Her heart quaking, she heard angry footsteps coming down the dark corridor. She ran over to the cellar door and quickly opened it with her trembling hand, then ran down the stairs. She was surprised to find the drunken man had fallen onto a bed of straw. Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster were outside the cellar door, so Rosalind ran and hid behind barrels of rum that she knew her stepfather smuggled into Savannah. She didn’t care about the rum, but why did he care if a man accosted her? Or did he?

She looked up at the ceiling, surprised to see the chair nailed to the floor. So, the floor spun around?

Heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs. Her heart skipped a beat with each thump. She scooted back against the wall, praying that they wouldn’t find her.

Their victim groaned.

A gunnysack filled with potatoes hung from a hook on one wall. Mr. Doyle pulled on the sack, and the wall creaked and slid open. She gasped and covered her mouth. A secret passageway!

“Let’s get this man to Hopper. He’s waiting for us at the end of the tunnel.”

Captain Foster shook his head. “The bastard’s as big as a whale.”

“Quit your bellyaching, and let’s move. Hopper’s willing to pay top price for this burley brute.”

Rosalind gritted her teeth. So, this was how her stepfather made his money––kidnapping innocent men and selling them. He always claimed that ´twas the tavern that lined his pockets with silver.

Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster grabbed the man’s arms and proceeded to drag him down the tunnel. Rosalind was captivated, and although she knew she should fly up the stairs to the safety of the bustling tavern, she had to see where the tunnel led. She had to report her stepfather, then she could escape his devilish plan to marry her to the despicable captain. But she needed proof before she went to the constable.

She forced herself to move out of her hiding place. Her legs trembling, she followed them into the tunnel.

Unfortunately, the tunnel was well lit, and the only way to hide would be to press herself against the wall next to a wooden beam. She licked her lips and crept down the stone tunnel. ´Twas damp and cold–obviously this led toward the Savannah River.

As she followed, she turned down the lanterns to hide in the darkness and hoped they didn’t turn around. Up ahead, she could see a group of men waiting, and she remained in the darkness, crouching next to a wooden beam.

“Hopper.” Her stepfather panted. “Bring your lads down to carry this one.”

Two of the men raced over and carried the passed out man’s legs. Hopper was tall and lanky. He had a scarf tied round his head and held a glittering sword in his hand.

When they reached him, he tilted his head. “Take the bloke on board the ship.” He tossed both her stepfather and the captain a small bag that Rosalind assumed was filled with coins. “You two got bigger problems.”

“What? Why?” her stepfather asked.

“You were followed.”

The blood emptied from her face. Both Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster whirled, pistols drawn. Rosalind grabbed her gown and lifted it, then fled down the now darkened corridor. Her only hope was to reach the crowded tavern.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” her stepfather yelled.

She didn’t stop. A pistol discharged, the shot barely missing her. Ignoring the stays confining her lungs, she ran faster than she ever had. Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster were not in good shape, but working at the tavern every night had given her stamina. She reached the cellar then climbed the stairs two at time. She tripped over her gown and fell on one knee.

“Rosalind, you bitch!” her stepfather called.

Pain wrangled her, but Rosalind got up and hurried up the stairs. She threw open the door, then slammed it shut, buying herself a little time.

But not quite enough.

The door banged open. Tears blurring her eyes, she half-limped, half-ran into the tavern with both men closing the distance behind. She reached inside her pocket and clasped her father’s watch, drawing on his courage.

She reached the crowded tavern, but a steely hand grabbed her arm. She was crowded against the wall with both men blocking any escape.

“You nosey, wench,” her stepfather hissed.

“Leave me alone,” Rosalind said, grasping for air. She wished Mr. MacFie would step out of the shadows again and save her.

Captain Foster narrowed his eyes. “You know our little secret.”

“You can’t kill me here,” she said.

“No, we can’t.” Her stepfather released her. “Not yet. If you want to live, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“No, you can’t be doing this. ´Tis wrong.”

“You’re to be my wife and will be silent,” the captain whispered.

“No, I have a better idea,” her stepfather said. “How much money do you think Hopper would pay to have a nosey wench service his men?”

Fear festered in Rosalind’s belly. “You can’t be serious.”

“Ah, but I can. Your mother leaves in a fortnight, and that’s when Hopper will sail. And you’ll be on that ship.”

“Doyle, you promised I could have her.”

“There are other wenches, Foster.” He yanked her hair and hissed into her ear, “If you breathe one word of what you have seen. I’ll personally slit your throat.”

She couldn’t breathe. Her stepfather would watch her like a hawk. She was about to go from one hell to another. All hope of escape died.

Chapter 4

Phearson hustled inside the tavern, pouring drinks and wiping the bar down. With the crowded bodies crammed together, the room was hot. Sweat trickled down his temples, and he didn’t have a moment to take a deep breath. He wanted to step outside to breathe some fresh sea air. His only bright moment was the tavern wench–Rosalind. She worked as hard as he did, but she’d been quiet all night, and he could barely get her to say two words, besides ordering drinks.

Rosalind put down her tray. “Two more pints, please.”

Her low voice sounded defeated, and she wiped a stray curl off her sleek forehead.

Phearson grabbed two tankards and filled them with mead. “You sound uncommonly down tonight, lassie. Where’s my smile? I havena seen it all night.”

“Stolen.” She didn’t offer any explanation, but she cast a wary look at his new boss, Esmond Doyle, who’d been keeping a close eye on her all night. When he approached the bar with two wealthy looking men, she grabbed the tankards and put them on her tray and hurried off to a table.

Doyle clapped one of the men on the back. “MacFie, give this man our finest rum. Mr. Matthews just brought me some valuable information.” He winked at him. “The Pious Twelve will be grateful.”

Phearson jerked his head up. The old man had mentioned the Pious Twelve, and Phearson suspected they were a righteous clan that vowed to cleanse the world of evil. They’d be the type of men who, when faced with a real vampire, would turn yellow and flee.

Matthews puffed out his chest. “Thank you.”

Doyle put down a bag of coins that caught Phearson’s eye. The coins would be enough for him to secure lodging instead of sleeping in the street again, but he’d vowed to try to make an honest wage.

Doyle bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have other business to attend.”

The other man raised his glass. “To the Pious Twelve.”

Doyle smiled as if he were just hailed king. Was he one of the Twelve?

Phearson kept pouring the men drinks and listened to their loose tongues. The Pious Twelve were indeed vampire killers–or more like executioners of anyone who didn’t meet their perception of what constituted a god fearing member of society. Phearson doubted there were vampires in Savannah unless Zuto had traveled through time and poisoned the river. No, more likely, they were poor souls that the Pious Twelve wanted to eradicate from this town like vermin.

The evening wore on, and Matthews and his friend––who Phearson learned was Vincent DiSanti––were one of the last customers to stumble out of the tavern. Phearson finished wiping down the counter, waiting to get paid. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. Doyle walked over and placed two coins on the counter without a glance.

Phearson stared at the miserly coins with his hands on his hips. He’d slaved the entire night, and all he’d earned were two Spanish coins that wouldn’t even pay for a night’s lodging. He’d made more money pickpocketing.

Rosalind put away some glasses and glanced at the coins. She sighed. “I am sorry, Mr. MacFie.” She slid three coins over to his. “Here.”

His pride was plucked. “The name’s Phearson.” He gently touched her hand. “I dona need yer charity.”

“´Tis not charity. I know what ´tis like to be a slave.” She wiped the glistening shine off her forehead, drawing his attention to her mask. “Mr. Doyle delights in ruining our dreams.”

He gave her a small smile. “Has he broken many of yours?”

“Too many to count.”

He frowned. “If he hurts you so much, why do you continue to work here?”

“I don’t have a choice. He’s my stepfather and makes me earn my keep.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know why I just told you that.” She nervously looked over to where her stepfather waited by the door. “I have to leave.”

Doyle motioned with his cane. “Time to close up, Mr. MacFie.”

Rosalind skirted around him, her face pale. Phearson put down the glass he’d been drying, then followed her. Doyle locked the door, then forcibly grabbed her arm and escorted to her to a nearby carriage.

Phearson leaned against the doorway, watching them disappear into the night. Theirs was a strange relationship. Doyle treated his stepdaughter as if she was a servant–a mistreated servant. Anger brewed inside him. Too many times, he’d been beaten and kicked by his uppers until he became a vampire. As a vampire, he’d been able to taunt and even kill those who would have ridiculed him.

He opened his fist to look at his miserly pay, then shoved it back into his pocket. So much for an honest day’s work.

Phearson had learned more from those drunken fools about Savannah than anyone else. Apparently, there was a cemetery called Colonial in the heart of town and where many of the wealthier citizens were buried. It would be an excellent place for a highway man to hide.

He turned around to see Matthews and DiSanti stumbling down the dark street ahead of him. He smiled. They would be easy prey for a vampire.

He leisurely followed them, remaining in the shadows. Street lamps flickered and gave off an eerie glow, casting shadows onto the warehouses stored with cotton and other goods. They were talking and laughing so loud they’d wake the undead. He chuckled. He was the undead.

Ahead of them was a green park with thick oak trees and Spanish moss dripping down their branches. A cool breeze brushed over the Savannah River, but it failed to dim the hot air. Fog rolled into the park, but with his vampire eyes, he could see a statue in the middle of the square. The men weaved down a path that went into the park as if they had no care in the world. He wasn’t the only predator out tonight.

He was about to attack when a man raced out of the darkness and grabbed DiSanti. He opened his mouth to reveal a mouth full of vampire teeth. So, there were vampires in Savannah!

DiSanti screamed, and Matthews, the coward, turned and ran, but he smashed into a tree and fell onto his back.

Phearson heard the clopping of horses. A dagger flew out of the darkness and hit the vampire square in the back before he could bite DiSanti. The vampire released DiSanti and slid down his body onto his knees.

Men appeared out of the fog wearing white robes with a red cross stitched on the front and back. Their hoods covered their faces. One of the men rose ahead of the others. “Holy salt water–´tis poison to you ungodly creatures.”

Phearson sucked in his breath at the cold voice. He knew him. ´Twas Esmond Doyle, his new boss.

The vampire fell onto his hands and knees. “I wasn’t going to kill him, I swear. My name’s Harry Pierce. I’m a man–not a monster. Why do you hunt us?” He panted. “We do not kill our victims. We…only…want…to survive.”

Vampires that didn’t kill their victims? Phearson wondered if the vampires were somehow related to the crew of the Soaring Phoenix. Their captain, Kane O’Brien, had taught them how to feed without killing, not something allowed on Palmer’s ship.

Doyle slid off his horse and held a sword in his hand.

“No, please,” Pierce pleaded. “I have a wife and child.”

“Not anymore,” Doyle said, colder than the devil himself. He lifted the sword high and sliced the vampire’s head off with one swing.

Phearson moved closer to Pierce’s headless body while the rest of the men climbed off their horses. With vampire speed, he relieved Pierce of his bag of coins and hid in the shadows as two of the Pious Twelve approached Pierce.

“What should we do with the carcass?” one of the them asked as he kicked the corpse. “I don’t think we should bury him here where good folk will gather tomorrow.”

Doyle tilted his head. “Dump his body in the river. Let the alligators feast on his remains.”

Phearson disappeared into the night as fear settled into his heart. He’d learned two things tonight. There were indeed vampires in Savannah and the Pious Twelve were not fools, but deadly vampire killers.

He had to be careful, damn careful, but anger surged through him.

Chapter 5

Phearson hid in the dark as the two men grunted while they dragged Pierce’s carcass down the cobblestone street toward the Savannah River.

“This is the sixth one this week,” one of them said.

“Savannah will be cleared of the vermin and safe for god-fearing folk.”

“Pierce’s wife will now be more amenable to me.”

“DiSanti, you have a fiancée.”

“Who is as ugly as a horse’s ass. If it weren’t for her money, I wouldn’t even consider it. Besides, any woman who offers herself to a vampire is a whore.”

Blinding fury surged through Phearson’s veins. He wanted Rosalind–if she became his sweetheart that didn’t make her a whore or fair game. He narrowed his eyes. Disanti would regret those words.

The other scoffed. “If you would curb your gambling–”

“Don’t lecture me. You’re no better than I am.”

“Except I am not forcing myself on a lady.”

“If she were a lady, she’d not have been married to a vampire. She’s a whore, soon to be my whore.”

Both men chuckled.

Enough! He would not allow another woman, especially Rosalind, to fall victim to DiSanti. Palmer was like DiSanti and sickened Phearson with how he treated female captives, especially the undine Angelica. The thought of Rosalind enduring DiSanti’s unwelcome advances unleashed his possessiveness. DiSanti would soon meet Lucifer in hell.

Pierce hadn’t been vicious and reminded him of the vampires on board the Soaring Phoenix. Unlike him and his crew, they didn’t kill their victims. Palmer thought this was a weakness and declared anyone who left a victim alive would lose his head.

Phearson had followed Palmer’s order. He was quite attached to his head.

He followed the men down to the river and waited for them to dump the head and the body.

The fools had picked the wrong vampire. The men congratulated themselves and got back onto their horses. Phearson had sized them up and had decided the two smaller, hooded men would be easier prey.

He drew on his vampire powers and transformed into a bat. Bones and muscles constricted and shrunk. It was as easy as changing clothes. He was three times the size and as strong as an eagle. His wings spread out two feet on each side, and his talons were as sharp as daggers. He flew after them and knocked one off his horse.

DiSanti screamed.

His partner turned around. “DiSanti, what––”

But he didn’t get a chance to answer. Phearson slammed into him, and he fell head over heels over the back of his horse. They both stumbled to their feet while their horses whinnied and ran off.

They fumbled to pull out their pistols, but Phearson was faster than a human. He soared back down and tore their flesh. They both grabbed their wrists and howled with pain.

“’Tis a vampire!” Their eyes wide, they both cried out.

He attacked DiSanti and dug his talons into his shoulder. He loathed men who preyed on innocent women. On board the Fiery Damsel, he’d never raped or brutalized a woman. He might be a pirate, but he did have some honor.

DiSanti slapped at his body, but ’twas useless. Phearson sunk his fangs into the man’s thick neck and sucked his warm blood.

“Matthews, help me!” DiSanti yelled as he pushed on Phearson’s body.

“I have blessed salt water, you devil.” Matthews’s voice shook.

Phearson released DiSanti, who dropped to his knees. He changed back into a man just as Matthews rushed him. Phearson easily stepped out of his way.

Matthews tripped over DiSanti, and they tumbled into a giant mess of cloaks, arms, and limbs.

Phearson waited patiently for them to untangle themselves.

Matthews helped DiSanti stand. He glared as his friend leaned against him. Matthews’s cloak had fallen off his head to reveal a young man of twenty. “Who are you? And how dare you attack us? Do you know who we are?”

“Aye, I do. Two righteous fools who killed an innocent man.”

“He was a vampire!”

Hate dripped from Matthews’s quaking voice.

Phearson narrowed his eyes. “He was. But he told you he left his victims alive.”

DiSanti looked up as blood gushed down his shirt. “’Twas a lie.” He was gasping for breath and would die soon. But Phearson didn’t pity him. Unlike Pierce, he deserved to die.

“Ye obviously dona know much about vampires, do ye?” Phearson approached them, enjoying the fear in their eyes.

Matthews dragged DiSanti, looking around wildly for help. “Leave us alone. Or…or we will hunt you down.”

Phearson laughed. “I dona think so. Yer all alone and not so brave when yer facin’ a powerful vampire.”

DiSanti clasped his hand over his neck and stared at his blood. “You said vampires don’t kill their victims.”

“I said Pierce and his kind dona kill their victims. I never said that was true with me. Now, I’ll give you a choice. One of ye will die; the other will live. The choice is yers.”

Matthews threw DiSanti at Phearson, then turned and ran like a yellow-bellied codfish.

“No!” DiSanti looked back at Matthews in utter shock.

Phearson wasn’t surprised that Matthews would sacrifice DiSanti to save his own worthless hide.

Phearson finished draining DiSanti, ignoring his pitiful pleas, just like he had with Pierce. Blood flowed through Phearson’s veins, increasing his power and his fury.

Matthews screamed and ran down the street, trying to open locked warehouse doors. Phearson dropped DiSanti’s lifeless body. Rosalind was safe from him, but what about the others? He rushed after Matthews. He grabbed his arm.

“Please don’t kill me.”

Phearson shook him. “Then take me to Pierce’s home.”

“What? Why?”

Phearson opened his mouth to reveal his fangs.

Matthews turned his head. “Please, please. I’ll take you.”

Phearson forced Matthews to retrieve DiSanti’s overstuffed coin purse, then Roger led him down the twisted cobbled streets to a small house. They hid in the shadows. The light shone inside, and a young blond woman paced back and forth. She held a baby in her arms.

He shoved Matthews. “Who is she?”’

Matthews banged into a tree. “Pierce’s wife. She’s not a vampire. We let her and the child live.”

Phearson’s chest tightened. What if they tried to hurt Rosalind because of him? He couldn’t let this happen. Now, poor Pierce’s woman would be forced into a dire situation thanks to these vile men.

“How noble of ye. Now, put DiSanti’s and your purse onto the grass.”

Matthews shoved his shaking his hands beneath his robe and threw them as if they were on fire.

“Your watch, too.”

Tears flicked in Matthews’s eyes. “I have a wife and a child, too.”

Phearson grabbed his robe and lifted the man off the ground. “Then ye should have thought about that before ye slaughtered an innocent man. I have a message for the Twelve. Tell them there is a new vampire–Captain Fear. And I have no fear of ye. If anything happens to her, I’ll come looking for ye. There’s nowhere ye’d be able to hide that I couldn’t find ye. D’ye understand me?”

Matthews’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, yes. I promise nothing will happen to her.”

He slapped Matthews hard across the head, knocking him out. He dropped him on the ground, then gathered the coins, along with DiSanti’s. Staying to the shadows and out of the light, he quietly slid them inside the door.

He didn’t know the poor woman’s name, but he’d keep an eye on her. He’d been unable to save Pierce, but he’d watch over his wife and child.

He’d never killed over a woman before, and didn’t regret killing DiSanti, but there was something about Rosalind that ignited a possessiveness inside him that was so strong, it scared him. If the Pious Twelve came near her or Rosalind, he’d rip out their black hearts.

Chapter 6

The next morning, Rosalind twisted her bedroom doorknob and found ´twas locked. She leaned her forehead on the wooden door and closed her fists. “Damn it!”

Why did her stepfather insist on playing this game? This wasn’t the first time he’d locked her in her room nor would it be the last.

She wasn’t going to wait for him to unlock the door. Obviously, Maggie wouldn’t be helping her dress. She took off her nightgown and grabbed a shift out of her dresser. She slipped it on, then struggled to put on the stays but managed to tie them. She grinned. Once again, ´twas not like this was the first time her stepfather had banished her to her room and forbade Maggie to help her.

She put on a red cotton petticoat, then put on a white Brunswick with red roses and a hood. She refused to put on one of Mr. Doyle’s prison garbs. Last, she quickly tied the mask to hide her scars.

She took a hairpin off her dresser and then hurried back to the lock. She stuck it into the keyhole. She took a piece of paper and slipped it under the door, so she could catch the key when she poked the keyhole with her hairpin. Holding her breath, she wiggled the pin until it went deeper inside and plopped the key out. Very slowly, she pulled the paper back with the skeleton key laying on top of it.

Freedom was within her grasp.

She turned the key, and the lock clicked. She smiled, then carefully opened the door. The hallway was empty. She slipped out of the room, then stuck the key back into the lock to make them think she was still imprisoned inside.

She tiptoed across the hardwood floor and pressed her back against the wall before she peered down the spiral staircase. Muffled voices carried up the stairwell.

Holding her breath, Rosalind slipped down the stairwell. As she drew closer, the voices grew louder. Mother and Mr. Doyle were in the sitting room.

“Esmond, I don’t understand, why are you banishing Rosalind to her room? What has she done?”

“I told you, dear. She was disrespectful to me in my establishment, which is something I will not tolerate.”

As always, her stepfather’s voice was patient and condescending with her mother, as if she were a small child. Rosalind would hate to have a man treat her as if she were too dense to understand and only dressed to look pretty. With her mask and scars, she’d not have to worry about the latter. She frowned. Why did Captain Foster want her anyway? ´Twas not like he would receive a respectable dowry.

But that didn’t matter right now.

She carefully inched toward the door, praying that she wouldn’t encounter a servant or have either her stepfather or her mother catch her. She put her shaking hand on the doorknob and turned. She glanced over her shoulder to find Maggie watching her with pity in her eyes. Rosalind placed her index finger to her trembling lips and glanced nervously toward the parlor. Maggie nodded then smiled.

“Maggie, dear,” Rosalind’s mother called from the parlor. “Would you bring us some tea and my fan? ´Tis becoming dreadfully hot.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Maggie answered.

She turned to leave for the kitchen, and Rosalind quietly slipped out the door to inhale the smell of sweet freedom.

Rosalind leisurely moved down the steps, knowing ´twas scandalous not to have an escort. But her stepfather wasn’t an escort, he was a jailer.

A horseman galloped down the road, and Rosalind groaned. ’Twas Captain Foster. She slid behind a giant oak tree.

Captain Foster hurried up the steps, then pounded rapidly on the door. “Doyle, Doyle, open the door.”

Maggie opened the door.

Rosalind held her breath, hoping he wasn’t there to see her.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Maggie said.

The lack of enthusiasm in her voice made Rosalind cover her mouth to keep from chuckling.

“Maggie, I must speak to Mr. Doyle. ’Tis urgent.”

Rosalind thought she detected a hint of fear. Intrigued, she edged around the tree trunk.

“Foster, what is wrong with you?” Mr. Doyle was less than pleased.

Captain Foster mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “I must speak to you in private.”

Mr. Doyle flicked his hand. “Very well. If you will excuse us, Maggie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Foster, you’re pale. What is the matter?”

“Vincent DiSanti is dead. Murdered. A va–”

She gasped.

“Hush, fool. Let us retire to my study.”

Rosalind leaned against the tree. Vincent DiSanti was dead? He was a member of Mr. Doyle’s Gentlemen’s club. Mr. Doyle would often go to a local warehouse to discuss business, but Rosalind suspected it was a gambling den. Not that she cared. It kept her stepfather busy and out of the house.

She thought of DiSanti. He was about fifteen years younger. A rich man’s son, he believed he was entitled to whatever he wanted–including women. She would have considered him handsome with his chiseled features and deep brown eyes if he hadn’t been such a brute. He’d forced himself on women he felt were beneath him. Although he was small for a man, he had powerful arms and an insatiable lust.

Whoever killed him would bring a smile to his victims. Rosalind had been lucky he’d never turned her way, but then again, she wore a mask and would have been less than perfect for him.

She hoped her stepfather’s and Captain Foster’s fear would have them contemplate what to do so she could get word to the provost.

She needed to tell someone what her stepfather had been doing at the Pirate’s House Inn, but the provost was a short way to Wright Square, and she’d create a stir without having an escort. Maybe she could tell someone what was going on and they could relay. Unfortunately, she couldn’t save the drunken man that both her stepfather and Captain Foster had forced down the tunnel, but maybe she could save someone else.

Not knowing where else to go, she crossed Abercorn toward Colonial Cemetery, which was more of a meadow than a graveyard. Father was buried there. She walked along a trodden path that led her to an oak tree, dripping with Spanish moss. She stood in front of his grave, which was more of a little mound where white, star-shaped thimbleweed flowers grew. She took out the pocket watch and caressed it with her fingers. The bubbled, worn surface was cool and gave her comfort. Like her, ’twas badly scarred.

She took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet fragrance that always wiped away the gloom. Sometimes, she swore she could feel his presence–his strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her from her cruel world.

But he wasn’t here.

He wasn’t coming.

She was alone and frightened.

Rosalind wiped away a stray tear. She wasn’t sure what to do next, but if she did nothing, Captain Foster and her stepfather would continue to kidnap innocent men.

A slight breeze blew and wrestled her father's flowers, giving her courage. She was about to turn and go to town to tell the constable, when a strong voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Good mornin’ to ye, Miss Gill.”

She jumped and whirled around to look into Phearson MacFie’s handsome face. She shoved the watch back into her pocket. He bowed slightly and flashed her a grin that would have melted many a young girl’s heart. She hadn't even heard him approach.

Her heart pumping fast, she frowned. “What are you doing here?”

The mischief in his eyes disappeared, replaced with a scowl. “What happened to yer face?"

His hard voice reminded her of her stepfather, and she took a step away from him.

Heat washed over her. She always dreaded that question. She avoided looking into his eyes. “I was burned in a fire when I was a baby. If you’ll excuse me–”

He grabbed her arm. “I'm not talkin’ about yer mask. I’m talkin’ about the bruise on yer cheek."

“Mr. Doyle was angry with me."

"What could ye have done that would have deserved this?”

His voice softened, and he ran the back of his hand down her mask.

She wasn’t used to people touching her mask and pulled on her arm. “Release me.”

He loosened his grip, but not enough for her to break free. “Not until ye tell me why he hit ye.”

“I argued with him.”

“About?”

She was too scared to tell him about the tunnel. “An arranged marriage, if you must know.”

“To who?”

“Captain Barnard Foster.”

“The pasty cod-fish at the Pirate’s House Inn?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Ye deserve a better man than him.”

“’Tis not like I have men standing in line to court me, Mr. MacFie.”

“Please call me Phearson.” He released her then gently captured her chin, his thumb caressing her masked cheek. “I would.”

She stood perfectly still, not sure what to do. No man had ever touched her mask. Her heart beat faster and faster as he bent his head, then he tenderly brushed his lips over hers in a soft, sweet caress. She’d never been kissed by a man and froze. She’d never thought any man would want to kiss her.

The door slammed across the street, and she jumped.

Her stepfather stood on the porch. “Rosalind? Where are you, girl?” He walked down the porch and around the yard, looking behind the shrubs and trees where she used to hide as a little girl.

“Phearson, you must leave.”

Panic sucked away her courage. If her stepfather saw them kissing, he’d do worse than just slap her. “He’ll be angry if he sees you.”

“Why?”

“Because he would think ’tis scandalous.”

“Then we’ll have to do more than a brief kiss.”

Warmth flushed over her cheeks.

“Rosalind, where the devil are you?"

Her stepfather shielded his eyes and looked up and down the street. His face was beet red, and his voice struck terror in her heart. Luckily, he hadn't seen her yet.

Captain Foster waited on the porch, sipping some tea. He never wanted to engage in manual labor, and hunting for a runaway fiancée would fall into that category. How could she hope to be married to such a man?

“Please, let me go before he finds me or Captain Foster sees me. I must get to the provost.”

“Over an arranged marriage?” Phearson’s eyes softened. “Ye think the provost will do something about your stepfather hitting ye? This is a man’s world, and yer stepfather is a powerful man.” He looked over her head. “Maybe I can help ye.”

She rubbed her tender cheek. “No, ’tis not that. ’Tis something I saw.” She lowered her voice, so her stepfather wouldn’t hear.

“What did ye see?” He pushed her hair behind her ear. “Dona worry, he’s gone back around the house. Tell me before ’tis too late. In my experience, secrets are never good. People die over them.”

His touch sent shivers down her back. She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder. “Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster are drugging men at the Inn, then selling them to pirates. There’s an underground tunnel beneath the bar. I saw–”

“Rosalind, you foolish girl.”

Mr. Doyle was storming across the street. Rosalind gasped. There was no escape. She was trapped between two forceful men.

“Please, don’t tell him what I told you.”

“Never.” Anger blazed in Phearson’ eyes. “I wona let him hurt ye.”

She stared at his broad back, bewildered that he actually was trying to protect her when no one else ever had––not even her mother.

“Thank goodness you found her, MacFie. Her mother, fiancé, and I were worried sick about her.”

"Strange, ye would say that since she has a shiny, purple bruise on her cheek.” Phearson’ voice shook with contempt.

Ignoring Phearson’s scorn, her stepfather said, “Rosalind, what are you doing wandering over here? ’Tis not safe.”

Rosalind peered around Phearson. “I wanted to visit Father’s grave.” Her voice wavered.

“Then you should have asked someone to attend you.”

“I attended her, since she obviously is in need of protection,” Phearson said, his voice edged with violence.

Mr. Doyle slowed his steps, and for the first time, hesitation flickered in his once angry eyes. No one had ever challenged his treatment of her. He cleared his voice. “Do you actually think I would hurt the poor girl? I'm afraid to say she's very clumsy and ran into the wall this morning.”

Rosalind scoffed and immediately regretted it. Her stepfather narrowed his eyes at her, and she looked down at her feet.

“Is that so?” Phearson asked. “I worked with her these past few nights at the Inn, and I never saw her trip once.”

"Well," her stepfather blustered, “then you were not watching her closely. I must insist that you release her to me at once. It’s not proper for her to be out here without a respectable escort.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Captain Foster had puffed out his chest, flashing a glare that would have curdled milk.

Mischief flicked in Phearson’s eye. “Meaning, I am not a suitable escort?”

Mr. Doyle puffed out his chest and reached for Rosalind. “Yes. Rosalind, come with me.”

Phearson blocked his path and towered over her stepfather. “I trust that ye will make sure Rosalind will not fall again. I would hate to think clumsiness runs in the family.”

The hint of violence in his voice made her stepfather’s face pale.

“Of course.”

Rosalind looked up at Phearson, still not comprehending why he was defending her? She was scarred, and no man wanted a flawed wife. Hadn’t Mr. Doyle and her mother told her as much? But Phearson had done more than just defend her, he’d kissed her. She touched her lips, savoring the taste of his masculinity that reminded her of a sea breeze.

Phearson put his hand on Rosalind’s waist and maneuvered her to Mr. Doyle, who gave her another terrifying scowl that made her legs tremble. He seized her hand, squeezing it tight. She winced but was smart enough not to cry out. It would only make matters worse.

“I will see ye tonight, my lady.” Phearson bowed. “I have some matters to attend.” He gave her a wink.

She rolled her tongue over her tender lips, remembering his sweet kiss, and heat flushed from her head to her toes. She liked kissing him.

As he turned to leave, she hoped he would go to the provost. Except for her father, the men in her life had yet to live up to their word.

Her stepfather leaned close to her ear. “You leave your room again, and you’ll not walk for a week.”

Rosalind refused to answer, but she detected fear in his voice, as if he were afraid of what Phearson might do if he hurt her.

Chapter 7

Phearson headed down the cobblestone road to the riverfront. A carriage creaked by, the horses’s hooves clomping on the stone. Men and women walked down the street linked arm in arm, pretending not to notice him. Phearson was too busy sorting out his thoughts to care.

He’d been watching Doyle’s house, waiting to see if someone would have reported DiSanti’s death to him. But he’d also wanted to make sure Rosalind was fine. Now, he couldn’t forget how her lips tasted like honey out of his mind. Despite her hard shell, she had a soft side that he wanted to explore.

Doyle was no better than Palmer. No, he was worse. Palmer didn’t hide his deviant acts behind a mask of decency. He wore his deeds proud and true. Doyle was a hypocrite, but Phearson had learned that men like him were much more dangerous because they had more to lose.

At home, the priest of his small parish had been seducing or raping the young boys in their town. Father O’Malley had cornered Phearson one night late in the church. Phearson had pulled out a blade and struck the man across the cheek. O’Malley had cried out, giving Phearson time to escape. The priest had blamed the cut on his cheek and the molestation of the other boys on a poor man troubled with liquor. An angry mob formed around the man and hanged him. Phearson had wanted to tell the truth, but fear had frozen him. He was poor and a thief. Who would have believed him?

’Twas something he’d often regretted.

Phearson came to the edge of the river and watched men load the ships with crates of vegetables, fruits, and fowl. He could easily join one of those crews and leave this miserable town, but if he did, people would die. The innocent vampires would be slaughtered, men would be sold into slavery, and Rosalind would be tied to a man she hated.

He sighed and followed people down the waterfront, looking for the courthouse. After asking around, he discovered that ’twas not on the riverfront, but at Wright Square. He arrived at a two story red brick building that was on the southeast corner. He walked inside and was given directions to the Provost Rocco DiSanti’s office.

So, Rocco DiSanti must be a relative of Vincent’s–perhaps his father or brother or cousin? Now, ’twas time to rip the Pious Twelve apart.

He frowned at the man sitting at the desk. He’d thought the man would be much older. He had on a white wig and was scribing on some parchment. The office was the sign of a wealthy man with the rich wood and tapestries hanging on the wall. But what caught his eye was the solid gold cross on the bookcase. It would bring a good price. How could a man who obviously considered himself Christian sink to torturing people? Or was Rocco even part of the depraved Twelve?

He cleared his voice, “Are ye Rocco DiSanti?”

The man shook his head. “No. I am his assistant, Michael Kelley. Mr. DiSanti suffered a great loss last night. His only son was brutally murdered.”

Phearson thought DiSanti deserved to be ripped apart and had no sympathy for his father, but he kept the thought to himself. Instead, he lied. “I believe I witnessed his murder.”

Kelley stood. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know ye will not believe me, but the other night, I saw somethin’ down at the dock.”

He put both hands on his desk. “Let me be the judge of that. What did you see?”

Phearson made his voice shake. “It looked like a demon attacking two men dressed in cloaks.”

Eagerness reflected in Kelley’s gray eyes. “And?”

“First, the hugest bat I have ever seen knocked them off their horses.”

“Are you sure ’twas a bat?”

“Aye, as big as an eagle. It transformed into a man with red eyes. He attacked one of them and bit him. I could hear him, suckin’ his blood.” Phearson pushed his hand through his hair. “I know this sounds strange.”

“Please go on.” Kelley’s face paled as white as his wig. Was he one of the Twelve?

“The man gave them a choice of which one would live and the other would die.”

Kelley frowned. “You mean this man gave them a choice to decide who would die?”

“Aye. The other man threw the wounded man at this creature that killed him. I dona what happened after that. I ran.”

Kelley closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Dear God.”

“I swear I am tellin’ the truth.”

Kelley pulled away from the desk and looked at the window. Sadness replaced the fear in his eyes. “Thank you for this information. What is your name?”

“Palmer. Quinton Palmer.” The lie easily rolled off his tongue, but tonight, the fool would be quaking from the name.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Palmer, I have some matters to attend.”

Phearson cocked his eyebrow at the heaviness in his voice. “I will take yer leave.”

He exited the provost’s office, but not before pocketing the gold cross on the bookshelf. Michael Kelley shouldn’t have easily dismissed him and would have to justify the missing religious artifact. Phearson wondered how quickly the provost would learn that his son was the sacrificial lamb so his so-called friend could escape. He headed into town to buy a cloak and hat. Like the Pious Twelve, he did not want to be recognized.

* * *

For the last three nights, he’d been lying in wait for them but found nothing. It hadn’t been all wasted. He’d robbed several carriages, and his purse had gotten fatter. Not enough to bribe a crew yet, but enough to give him hope that his dream was possible.

Phearson wiped down the bar, waiting for his shift to end. Rosalind bustled around the tables, carrying platters of hot food and tankards of ale. She didn’t appear to have any more bruises, but he didn’t trust her ill-mannered stepfather.

She came back, her face flushed. “I need five more tankards.” Her skin glistened under the lantern light, which only enhanced her beauty.

She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I need to talk to you in private.”

He tilted his head. “’Tis busy enough. Meet me in the corridor.”

She nodded, then grabbed the tankards.

In a few minutes, she disappeared into the corridor. Doyle had hired another man to work the bar–Samuel–a grizzled old sailor. “Sam, we’re low on rum. I need to get some more.”

“Hurry back,” he grunted.

Rosalind waited in the shadows of the corridor for him, looking around nervously. “I haven’t seen you for the past three nights. Where have you been?”

“Miss my kisses?”

She blushed. “No.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Ye didna like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she stammered.

Before she could say anything else, he put his hands on her tense shoulders and kissed her. This one was longer and more intense than in the cemetery. She struggled for a minute, but then leaned into him. He wanted to taste more of her femininity. For the last few days, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. It had only been one brief kiss, but it had lingered on him for days. She had tasted sweet and innocent, not like the whores he’d dallied with previously. He was tired of being forced to live with the undesirables.

He lost himself in her embrace. He maneuvered her against the wall and pressed his body against hers. She was soft and curvy, stirring his passion.

She broke off his kiss and panted. “Stop…before someone sees us.”

He could hear the fear in her voice and silently cursed Doyle. “I’m sorry, Rosalind.” He groaned inwardly. Her normally tight bun had fallen loose, allowing wild strands of hair to frame her flush face.

She straightened her dress. “So, where were you?”

“I had some business to attend.” He pushed a lock of a stray hair behind her ear. “Why?”

“Did you talk to the provost?”

He’d almost forgotten about that since he’d been so taken with her. “Aye, I talked with him.”

“Well, is he going to do anything?”

He shrugged. “I dona know. I dona think he took it seriously.” He didn’t know if either Kelley or DiSanti’s father were part of the Pious Twelve. Until he knew for sure, he wasn’t going to make any assumptions.

Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a long breath. Disappointment spread across her face, and she tapped her fingernails on the counter. “We have to do something.”

He frowned. “’Tis too dangerous for ye to do anythin’.” He kissed the top of her clenched knuckles. “Please, let me handle this. I dona want to see anything happen to ye. Where is this secret tunnel?”

She edged closer and whispered, “Do you see that hook with the burlap of vegetables hanging from it?”

“Aye.”

“’Tis actually a lever that opens up to a secret passageway. That’s where Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster dragged that man below. It actually goes all the way down to the river.”

“Ye followed them?”

“Yes.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Rosalind, promise me ye willna do that again. ’Tis much too dangerous.”

Before she could answer, Sam yelled, “Rosalind, Phearson, what are you doing? We need help out here.”

“Excuse me.” Rosalind broke away from him and hurried back to the tavern.

Phearson stared at the lever, vowing to investigate further and put an end to Doyle’s little scheme.

He went back to working behind the bar. Rosalind returned. She opened her mouth to say something, but when Doyle approached the bar, she quickly grabbed the mugs of beer and hurried to deliver them to thirsty customers.

Doyle looked around the tavern and leaned against the bar. “”Tis been a good night. A very profitable one.” But he wasn’t looking at Phearson, he was studying a young man who sat in the corner, deep in his cups. He nodded his head, and Foster followed his gaze.

Phearson frowned and avoided looking at Doyle. Instead, he served two men sitting at the counter. Obviously, Doyle had designs to kidnap the poor chap. There was no depth to the evil in the man.

The memory of being forced to serve on the Fiery Damsel made him grit his teeth. He still bore the scars from Palmer’s lash. He slammed another mug onto the counter, and mead sloshed over the rim, onto the man’s shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man slurred as he jumped out of his chair.

“Sorry,” Phearson said, as he wiped up the mess. “I will get ye another one on the house.”

Doyle walked over toward the young man who was turning his cup around and said something. Even with his vampire hearing, Phearson couldn’t hear above the crowd.

The man shook his head, turned his body away, and went back to drinking his cup. Foster glared down at the top of the man’s blond head.

Doyle gestured with his hand as he walked toward the back of the tavern. This wasn’t good. They were determined to get this young chap.

He studied Foster. He was a pompous, older gentleman who would not take kindly to creatures. He smiled. Time to show the world his cowardliness.

Another tired barmaid, Alyssa, came over. “I need two more shots of whiskey, mate.” Penniless, she’d recently sailed from Australia and was forced to work in the tavern. To make money on the side, she turned tricks in the alley.

“I need to get another bottle––wait here.” He slipped around her and headed toward the storeroom. No one was in the corridor, and drawing on his vampire powers, he transformed into a bat. He’d been doing this so long it only took a couple of minutes. His muscles and bones quickly contracted, and he shrank in size. His incisors grew, and he released a loud, chilling shriek.

He flew out of the corridor into the crowded tavern. He whizzed past Alyssa, who screamed and dropped her tray.

“A bat! Kill it! Kill it.”

Someone cursed. “Look at the size of that bloody thing!”

Chairs and stools toppled as men tried to get away. Swords and pistols were drawn. Pistols fired and shot ripped through Phearson’s wing. Hot pain stopped his heart, but he didn’t care.

Rosalind ducked and put her tray over her head as if she were afraid he’d tangle her silky hair, but he only had plans for Foster.

The bastard grabbed Rosalind and used her as a human shield. Anger swelled inside Phearson. He wanted to rip out the coward’s soul.

“Captain, what are you doing?” Rosalind lifted her foot and stomped on his toes with her heel.

He howled with pain.

Rosalind hid underneath the table, alongside some of the other patrons. Phearson admired her courage to fight and never give up. She wasn’t a fainting damsel who always expected to be rescued. But then, living with Doyle, she had to be strong if she wanted to survive.

Phearson flew over the top of their heads and lowered his talons, ripping off Foster’s powdered wig. Blood spurted into the air. He put both his hands on top of his now blood-soaked scruffy hair. An emerald and gold ring glistened in the light.

Phearson wasn’t done yet and landed on top of Foster’s hands. He bit his fingers, and Foster screamed. He lifted his hands in the air to push Phearson off him. Even in bat form, Phearson had learned to steal and ripped off both rings with his fangs, tearing and shredding Foster’s fingers.

“My fingers, my rings!” Foster shrieked, as he held his bloody fingers underneath his armpits. “It bit me. I need a doctor.”

He raced out of the tavern and into the street, screaming. Men pushed their way through the door, along with the young man who unknowingly escaped a horrible fate.

Rosalind peeked from underneath the table. Her mask was splattered with drops of blood. Her eyes were huge, and her face had turned ashen. She had no idea he was trying to protect her, but after she’d tangled with Foster, maybe she didn’t need protecting.

Dizziness swept over Phearson, and the world spun around him. He flew above the chaos and headed for the docks, but his vision blurred, and he lost all direction. His flight was erratic, and he struggled to move his hurt wing. He spiraled downward––his wound must be worse than he’d thought.

His vampire strength failed, and he crashed into a tree. He transformed back into a man and fell through moss and branches. His clothes tore, and branches scratched and pierced his skin. He landed hard on the ground and passed out.

Chapter 8

Rosalind woke up in a hot sweat and trembling. The sunlight shone through the window. Breathing hard, she stared at her mask, which was stained with blood. She couldn’t forget what happened at the tavern. Phearson had kissed her so possessively that she’d lost herself, but she wanted so much more.

He acted as if he wanted her. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. Too many times, men had disappointed her––like when Captain Foster used her as a human shield against that blood-thirsty, killer bat. She’d kept waiting for Phearson to fight it, but he’d never appeared. Was he like her stepfather and Captain Foster, hiding like cowards? Somehow, she couldn’t believe Phearson had a yellow streak.

She picked up William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and started to read it. It belonged to her father. According to Mother, he loved the story, because he thought their relationship was like the star-crossed lovers. Mother’s parents didn’t approve of Rosalind’s father, and they had to run away to get married. She sighed. Like Romeo and Juliet, her parents’ love story ended in a tragedy, and now, her life was an endless nightmare. Unable to read at the moment, she put the book carefully back down on her dresser.

She kicked the blanket off and walked over to the window to look out at Colonial Cemetery, wishing she could feel her dad’s presence, but she felt nothing. The sun had just peeked over the horizon, and birds chirped a sad song.

A stork glided down onto a grassy mound and then lifted its leg as it walked. Something flickered by its feet, and she gasped. ’Twas a hand. She pressed her palms against the windowpane.

Someone tried to get up, and then Rosalind froze. ’Twas Phearson. His face was ashen. A look of pain flashed over his handsome face, and then his eyes fluttered shut. He fell backward and didn’t move.

Oh, Lord, he must be hurt! He must have tried to fight the bat and lost.

Her heart pounding rapidly, Rosalind quickly grabbed her robe and slippers, then without thinking about decency, she ran out of her room. She hurried out of the house and raced over the dewy grass to Phearson.

He lay on his back. Blood drenched his right arm.

“Phearson,” she said quietly as she knelt next to him. “Can you hear me? What did that creature do to you?” She pushed his hair off his face.

Only the birds answered.

She put the back of her palm over his mouth and warm breath tingled her fingers. He was alive. Barely.

Blood trickled down his arm and stained the grass. She examined his wound more closely. Muscle and flesh had been torn away. ’Twas not a bite mark. He’d definitely been shot. He needed medical attention. There would be no way she could lift him and needed help. She’d have to reluctantly ask Mr. Doyle.

“Phearson, I promise I’ll be back.” She kissed him on his forehead, then hurried back to the house. He would get well. He was the first man that seemed to genuinely care about her. At least enough to defend her against her stepfather. He’d even been willing to try to get a message to the provost for her. What if that was why he’d been shot? This would be all her fault.

“Mr. Doyle! Mother! Wake up!”

“What the devil–” her stepfather called from upstairs.

“Hurry, Mr. Doyle! Phearson’s hurt. He’s in the cemetery, I think he’s been shot.”

Her stepfather came down the stairs, tying his robe, his black hair standing straight up. “How do you know he’s been shot?”

Her mother followed, her long blond hair sleek. Concern flared in her eyes as she glanced at Rosalind’s gown. “Darling, you didn’t leave the house unescorted, did you? Especially not without your mask on.”

Rosalind flinched and immediately touched her scarred cheek. “Mother, he’s hurt.”

Like everyone else, her mother could barely look at her face. Rosalind blinked back unwanted tears. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Phearson.

Mr. Doyle glared. “What will your fiancé say?”

Rosalind grabbed some towels out of the wash closet. “You actually want me to marry a man who used me as a human shield to protect him from a flying creature?”

“You have not received any other marriage proposals,” her mother said. “You need someone to take care of you.”

“I can’t believe you’re both worried about Captain Barnard. He isn’t important. Phearson is, and he’s hurt.”

Mr. Doyle snagged her arm. “And he is an employee and a stranger. Why are you calling him by his first name? ’Tis not proper. You have a fiancé. What would he think?”

Rosalind held her tongue. “We work together–that’s all. Please–he’s in trouble.”

“You will stay here and not make a spectacle of yourself.”

He left and slammed the door. Rosalind opened the door, but her mother put her hand on hers.

“Rosalind, no. Do not make him angry.”

The warning in her mother’s voice made her hesitate. She didn’t want to be locked in her room, but she wasn’t going to allow an innocent man to die.

Mr. Doyle searched the cemetery.

Rosalind pointed from the doorway. “He’s by the tree!”

Mr. Doyle walked over to the tree. He put his hands on his hips. “There’s no one here.”

“No, he was right there.” Rosalind broke away from her mother’s grip and dropped the towels onto the floor. She bolted across the street to where her stepfather stood, looking around with his hands on his hips.

She looked at the pressed grass soaked with blood.

“See! He was right here.”

“You’re a foolish girl. That could be an animal’s blood. You try my patience. Now come with me before I lock you up again.”

Rosalind looked around the cemetery for a clue on where Phearson had gone, but she didn’t see any trails of blood or footsteps in the wet dewy grass. He’d been here. She knew it.

But he wasn’t now.

“You must have been dreaming,” her stepfather said, his voice sharp. “What an inconsiderate girl you are–waking me from a sound sleep and playing these foolish games. You’ll go back to your room and stay there. You’ll not have any breakfast this morning. That ought to teach you some respectability.”

Rosalind didn’t answer. She looked over her shoulder, wondering what had happened to Phearson. He’d been so pale, and she’d seen him passed out cold. What if someone was hurting him? She shouldn’t have left him and called for help. This was all her fault. Someone must have taken him. She just hoped they’d taken him to a doctor and not to finish him off.

* * *

Rosalind’s stomach growled as she rode in the carriage with her stepfather. He gave her a knowing smile. It hadn’t been just the morning meal he’d denied her. She missed out on afternoon tea as well, but she refused to beg for one more morsel.

Neither he nor her mother believed that Phearson had been shot. Yet she knew what she saw and wanted some answers.

Captain Foster must have had something to do with his disappearance, and when she saw him, she’d demand he’d tell her the truth. He owed her this much after throwing her at a monstrous bat.

The carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. He took her hand, and unlike her custom, she didn’t wait for Mr. Doyle.

“Rosalind, wait for me.”

Ignoring his harsh tone, she walked into the tavern, looking for Captain Foster. He sat at a table sipping a tankard of mead. She hoped his head hurt. Rather than going to the bar, she hurried over to the table.

“Evenin’ to ye, Rosalind.”

She jerked her head around to see Phearson wiping the bar down–handsome as ever. She lost all interest in Captain Foster and headed over to the bar.

“How are you feeling?” she blurted.

He raised his eyebrow. “That is an odd question.”

“Were you hurt earlier?”

He avoided her gaze and filled a man’s tankard. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Rosalind.” Her stepfather came up behind her. “We have customers.”

“Yes, Mr. Doyle.” She rolled her eyes, but grabbed the tray and went to a table where men were demanding drink orders.

She wasn’t satisfied with Phearson’s answer. But why would he lie?

She was wiping down a table when an elderly man approached. His face was weathered, and his hair a brilliant white, but ’twas his kind blue eyes that made her smile.

“Good evening, Miss. May I sit here?”

“Why, of course. What can I get for you?”

“A bottle of whiskey and something hot.”

“The stew is piping hot, and I can bring you some fresh-baked bread.”

“That would be lovely, dear.”

Rosalind hadn’t had a customer who’d spoken to her with such kindness. Usually, men yelled or slapped her bottom to get her attention.

She retrieved a bottle and a shot glass for him, then went to the kitchen to dish up the stew. She inhaled the warm scent of baking bread and the smell of bubbling stew. For being such a bawdy establishment, Darin Wheeler, the cook, made some of the other eateries jealous. His meat was always tender, and he always insisted on the freshest vegetables, but ’twas his bread that always had customers asking for more.

“Greetings to you, Rosalind,” he said.

Darin had come down from New York and had a thick accent. He had a big mustache that matched his girth.

“Evening, Darin. How’s your wife?”

He smiled. “Pretty as ever. Busy with the little ones.” He crossed his arms over his apron and studied her. “Mr. Doyle treating you fair?”

“Mr. Doyle is Mr. Doyle. I need a bowl of your famous stew and a loaf of bread.”

He dished a bowl up and placed it on a plate along with bread and butter.

“Here you go, girl. Mr. Doyle ought to treat you better. ’Tis a shame how he treats you.”

“I’ll survive.” At least she hoped she would.

Before she left, her curiosity got the better of her. “Darin, have you ever talked to Phearson?”

“Only in passing. Why?”

“What do you know of him?”

He shrugged. “He keeps to himself and hasn’t said much.”

“Did you see him when he came in here?”

He frowned. “We got here at the same time.”

“Um, did he seem hurt to you?”

He frowned. “No, why?”

She shrugged. “Just wondering.”

Still not satisfied, she hurried out of the kitchen with the food and maneuvered her way through the crowd, not spilling a drop or having the bread pilfered.

She flashed her polite customer a smile and served him. “Here you go, sir. If you need anything else, please let me know.”

“Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

She returned to her less than polite customers but always made sure the gentleman had what he needed.

An unsteady man shoved his chair out just as Rosalind was carrying a tray with empty dishes. She tripped over the chair’s leg and landed on her knee, hard. The tray and dishes crashed onto the floor.

“Clumsy girl,” the man muttered, as he weaved toward the door.

Someone mumbled under his breath.

She immediately grabbed the tray and started to pick up the dishes.

Mr. Doyle stood in front of her. “Rosalind, you stupid girl. This will come out of your pay.”

She looked up at his beet red face and narrowed eyes, then shrank. She blinked back tears, and she shook as she picked up the large pieces.

Suddenly, someone was beside her.

Phearson lifted up her trembling chin. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

“No,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “No, I am fine.”

“Dona worry about this. I’ll clean it up.” He tilted his head. “Go splash some water on yer face.”

The concern in his voice touched her. When she dropped a glass or a plate, no one ever helped her, and stepfather always took great pains to humiliate her.

Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t speak and nodded. She went to the washtub and removed her mask. She splashed water onto her face and then patted her face dry with her apron. She refused to cry and quickly tied the mask back on. Ignoring her throbbing knee, she returned to the crowded tavern.

“There’s my girl.” Phearson was waiting for her.

No one was in the corridor. He took her hand, and with his thumbs, wiped the tears from her face. He bent his dark head then delicately kissed her cheeks. He pushed his tongue to pry open her tight lips, and she couldn’t deny him. He was so thorough, stealing her breath and filling her with desire. She fell under his spell.

This kiss was longer, deeper, and sultrier. She held on tight to his shoulders, wanting someone to protect her just once. She was tired of fighting all of her own battles. She indulged in his salty and sexy taste, not caring if anyone saw them. Let them.

He broke off the kiss. “Such a fiery lass.”

She squirmed. “I am sorry. Have I shocked you?” She should have resisted him more.

“No, not at all. I’d enjoy kissing you all day.”

“And so would I,” she murmured.

“Perhaps, I’ll arrange that soon.”

She broke out in hot perspiration at his promise. “We should get back.”

He flashed her a smile, then wrapped his arm protectively around her back and escorted her to the tavern. “Yes, we wouldn’t want anyone coming to look for us.”

She should tell him not to touch her so intimately, but his protectiveness erased some of her fear. “Who’s watching the bar?”

He brushed his lips close to her ear. “Why, your caring fiancé.”

His warm breath sent chills down her spine.

She burst out laughing as Captain Foster tried to fill the customers’ drinks.

Phearson relieved the flustered man, and Rosalind lowered her head. Captain Foster deserved to be forced into hard labor after what he and her stepfather did to the poor souls they sold into slavery. Her kind customer waved to her, and she hurried over, hoping he wouldn’t give her a tongue lashing.

“My dear,” he said. “I saw what happened. Did you hurt yourself?”

She exhaled. “No, I am fine. Phearson helped me.”

He leaned closer. “A most agreeable young man.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sparkling red stone. “I am a very rich man, and I want you to have this.”

Her eyes widened. “Is this real?”

He laughed. “It is. A ruby. I know Esmond Doyle, and he does not impress me. Your mother never should have married him. Your father would have disapproved.”

Her face paled. “What? You knew my father?”

“Miss, I need another drink.”

She ignored the customer and flicked her hand.

“Hey, I said–”

Something pounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see that Phearson had slammed a tankard down on the table. The man slunk down in his chair. Phearson winked at her, then returned to his station.

Once again, he’d come to her rescue.

She turned to the man. “What is your name?”

“Name’s Bailey. Sean Bailey. Your father worked for me many years ago.” He took her hand and placed the stone in the middle of her palm. “He would have wanted you to have this.” He cast her stepfather, who was watching him intently, a sour look. “Don’t let that devil take this from you. If you need me, I’m staying at the Captain’s Inn.”

The Captain’s Inn was in a posh area of Savannah occupied by the wealthy.

“If you’ll excuse me, Rosalind, I will take my leave.” He put his large hand over her shaking one. “If you’d like to hear more stories about your father, come see me.” He stood and bowed slightly. “Remember, if you need my assistance…”

Rosalind felt like she’d fallen into a dream and any minute she would wake up. She wanted to rush after Mr. Bailey, but instead, slipped the stone into her pocket beneath her apron. She turned to see several men, including her stepfather and Captain Foster, had witnessed the exchange. She whisked past the prying eyes and was glad the night was almost over.

Mr. Bailey had known her father. She had so many questions. Her mother rarely spoke of him, and Rosalind only possessed a few items from him and had to hide them from her stepfather. She had his broken gold watch and a book of Romeo and Juliet, which reminded Rosalind of her parents’ love story. Her mother was from a higher class in Ireland and her parents wanted her to marry someone of her status, but her mother had already fallen in love with her father. So, they’d had fled Ireland and had come to America. Unlike the star-crossed lovers, her parents had survived. But Rosalind thought there were enough similarities and had memorized the story word for word.

She had nothing of real value.

Until now.

But she knew her stepfather well. He’d demand the stone.

She lifted her chin up high and glared, waiting for the coming battle.

Chapter 9

Phearson had watched the old man give Rosalind an egg-size ruby. Why the hell had he done so in this den of pirates and thieves? The ruby had glittered and sparkled, drawing the attention of several men around the table–including him. With that ruby, he’d be one step closer to bribing a crew and becoming a captain. Normally, he would have easily robbed the lass. But for the first time, he hesitated. That wasn’t true for the rest of the men watching Rosalind like a pack of coyotes waiting to attack an unsuspecting doe. The generous but foolish old man had just put the lass at risk.

Luckily, the night was coming to a close. Phearson wouldn’t let anything happen to the lass, but his vow was put to the test.

Doyle and Foster came along either side of her and forcibly escorted her away. He cursed under his breath. He wanted to help her, but then he’d reveal he was a vampire, and he wasn’t ready to do that.

Not yet.

A loud scream turned his blood cold. He immediately regretted his decision when Rosalind ran out of the back room. She had a cut lip, and her eye was swollen shut. Faster than any human, he clasped her arm.

She wiggled. “Let go of me.”

“Rosalind, ’tis me. What happened?”

Tears streaked down her face and stained her mask. “He took it from me.”

“The ruby?”

She wiped her eyes. “You saw?”

“Everyone saw, lass.” He rubbed her arm. “I am sorry.”

“’Tis not just the ruby,” she choked. “He took my father’s watch. ’Tis not worth anything. He was wearing it when he tried…” Her voice trailed off.

He held her close, glaring at Doyle. The bastard had a smug look on his face and patted his now pocket which had a slight bulge. As usual, Foster trailed him like a beaten cur.

Doyle snapped his fingers. “The two of you get back to work.”

Phearson stood in front of her. “Do not hurt her again.”

“I’ll do––”

Phearson edged toward him. He was at least a foot taller, more muscular, and younger than the fool. Doyle was smart enough not to challenge him.

“She brought it on herself. ’Twas for her protection. You saw the ruby. She would have been the target of foul play.”

Phearson narrowed his eyes and didn’t challenge him here and now. But he’d only possess the jewel and the watch temporarily. Captain Fear would see to that.

* * *

After the bar had closed, Phearson left before Doyle and Rosalind. He quickly changed into his disguise of a large cloak, a gold mask, and a purple feathered hat. He rode a horse he’d stolen earlier that day and hid in the darkness of the cemetery as he waited for Doyle’s carriage.

The clomping of horses pricked up his ears. He pressed his heels into the horse’s side and stepped out of the shadows, his pistol drawn. The driver pulled on the horses’ harness.

“Whoa,” the frightened old driver said, as he reached under his jacket, his hand shaking.

Phearson cocked the pistol and revealed his pointed fangs. “Ye’ll be dead before ye reach it.”

The man put his hand on his throat. “You’re a vampire.”

“What the devil is going on out there?” Doyle called from inside. “Why did we stop?”

Phearson looked at the driver. “My quarrel is not with ye. Leave while why ye have the chance.”

The driver nodded and climbed down from the carriage, then fled into the darkness.

Phearson maneuvered his horse to stand just outside the carriage. “Come out. Both of ye.”

The door opened. Rosalind stepped out. Her lower lip and right eye had swollen. She gazed at him in fear, which was the last thing Phearson wanted, but this was the only way he could think of to get her ruby and watch back. She looked around for an escape, but between Phearson’s horse, the carriage, and Doyle, she was trapped.

“Captain Fear!” His eyes wide, Doyle stepped around her, then fired a pistol. The shot lit up the dark street and hit Phearson in the shoulder.

He jerked, but stayed on the horse. “That was foolish.”

He swooped off the horse faster than a man, and grabbed Doyle by the throat, and lifted him off the ground.

Doyle clawed at his hands. “Release me this instant.”

“Yer not in charge.” Phearson pulled back his lips to reveal sharp fangs. Satisfaction warmed his heart as fear settled in Doyle’s eyes.

“You are the undead.”

“I thought we already established that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Empty yer pockets.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Aye, I know who ye are.” Phearson released him. “Now, do as I say, or I’ll rip yer throat out.”

Doyle reached into his pockets, his hand shaking, and tossed out his wallet, thick with bills. “That’s all I have.”

“Liar.”

Phearson grabbed him by the throat again and lifted until he was on his tiptoes. He roughly searched his person. Doyle sputtered, and his cheeks turned bright red. Phearson didn’t care. He easily found both the ruby and the watch hidden in his vest. He released him, and Doyle collapsed onto the ground, landing on all fours. He gasped for breath and spit onto the ground.

Rosalind hadn’t moved. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have nothing.”

Phearson tipped his hat. “I will not harm ye, lass.”

But just as he uttered the words, shots rang out. Rosalind screamed. She slammed her head into the carriage. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed. Blood trickled from her forehead. His heart stopped. He caught her before she hit the ground and turned to see hooded men on horseback–the Pious Twelve.

The weasel driver must have alerted them.

Doyle looked up at him. “You will die, Fear.”

Not wanting to risk Rosalind getting hurt again or being shot with holy salt water, he jumped onto his horse and jabbed his ankles into the horse’s flank.

“Give me back my daughter!”

Daughter? The same beautiful woman he’d beaten and humiliated. Now, she was his daughter?

More shots whizzed over his head. He looked over his shoulder to see four men on horseback chasing them. Doyle hadn’t joined them.

“Captain Fear has Rosalind!” Doyle cried out. “Seize him!” His voice boomed like a cannon.

Phearson held Rosalind close and grimaced as blood dripped onto his hand. If he’d thought he could trust them, he would have abandoned her in hopes that they would take her to a doctor. But men who tortured vampires and sold men into bondage would gallop over anyone in their way. No, he had to lose them.

He rode the horse hard, careful not to lose Rosalind. Her warm breath spurred him on. He’d been on a pirate ship for the last two years and learned how to tend gunshot wounds, but he wasn’t an expert. He didn’t know Savannah, and the men behind him did, but he had some tricks of his own. He raced the horse into the cemetery where there was little light. He could see, but his pursuers could not. ’Twas an advantage.

Behind him, men cursed, and pistols fired blindly. He headed for a huge oak tree veiled in Spanish moss. He slid off the horse then slapped its hind quarters. The horse neighed and disappeared within the trees. Horses galloped past him, their riders unaware that he was pressed against the trunk.

Using vampire speed, he raced through the cemetery and onto the paved streets. He practically flew to his lodging that was near the dock. ’Twas not much. Just a room over a warehouse, a cot, a cookstove, and a chair, but ’twas clean and bigger than he’d been used to at sea. The only thing of worth was the chest that he had, which was only a quarter filled with the treasure that he’d pilfered. Hardly enough to bribe even one sailor. However, his place was not a place for a lady.

Rosalind needed a surgeon, but he didn’t have time to hunt for one–not with the Pious Twelve on his arse. His only choice was to bring her to his room and care for her himself.

He whipped open the door, hurried over to his cot, and carefully laid Rosalind down. Blood had soaked her shirt and mask. He tore off his cloak and hat. He grabbed a cloth then pumped water out of the spigot. Water spilled onto the cloth. Being on a pirate ship, he learned to keep a needle and thread in case of injuries. Deciding to be a highwayman was no different, so he’d obtained his own surgeon’s kit of needles, thread, scissors, and alcohol. He planned to use it on himself, not ever thinking he’d have to care for Rosalind.

He put wood in the stove and lit it. He filled a pan with water and dropped the needles inside. He went over to Rosalind and knelt next to her.

“Rosalind, Rosalind, can ye hear me? I need to remove yer mask to care for yer wound.”

She answered him with a shallow breath.

“Dona be angry with me,” he murmured as he gently lifted her head and untied the strings to her mask. ’Twas soaked with blood, and he put it on the floor. Damn, his hand was bloody. He dabbed her temple to examine her wound. Even with his vampire sight, ’twas hard to see how bad the wound was.

He quickly lit the lanterns then returned to her side. He gasped at the deep scars on her porcelain face. Light, raised-pink skin framed her right eye and reached the bridge of her nose and to her temple. He’d seen men on board ship badly burned who’d lost the will to live, but not Rosalind. She had a spirit he admired.

The shot had grazed her temple, but ’twas the wound on the back of her head that worried him. He carefully wiped away the dried blood from her thick hair to reveal a deep cut. He rolled her onto her side, then dipped a spoon into the water to take out the needles. He rinsed them under cold water, then grabbed a spool of thread. Taking a deep breath, he threaded the needle. He was prepared to do this to himself, but not to this charming woman. But she needed him.

He pinched her skin then threaded the needle through it. His heart clenched each time he pulled the needle out, and sweat blurred his eyes. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept going. He cut the thread with a pair of scissors. All he had was rum to stop any infection. His facility was crude, but clean. He dampened the cloth with some rum then patted the wound.

Rosalind jerked and gasped.

He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. Rosalind, are ye awake?”

But she didn’t answer.

He went over to his chest and took out a shirt then ripped it into strips. He returned to her side and cleaned away the blood at her temple. He retrieved another needle and stitched shut the scratch. ’Twas not as long or deep as the one on the back of her head. He used the rum-soaked cloth to prevent any infection. Rosalind hissed and moaned, but didn’t wake.

He carefully wrapped his shirt around her head. “Sleep well, Rosalind.” He bent over and kissed her on her warm forehead. He removed the bloody cloths and wrung them out in the sink. Weariness overwhelmed him. He grabbed the rum and took a big swig. The warm liquid eased the tension inside him. He glanced over at her and noticed the bulged in his discarded cloak.

Not wanting anything to happen to the ruby and watch, he placed them in his chest. He’d give them to her tomorrow.

He sat in a chair next to the cot to keep vigil.

Her chest slowly raised up and down. He’d take her to a surgeon tomorrow.

Anger burned inside him at her pale face. The fools should have known better. They shot wildly, not caring who they hurt. The Pious Twelve needed to be stopped. They cared nothing for the innocent, beginning with Esmond Doyle.

Chapter 10

Rosalind woke to a splitting headache. Her stomach swirled, and she gritted her teeth to force back nausea. She lay still and took deep breaths. She slowly realized that ’twas not just her breath echoing in the room, but loud snores made her peek open one eye. Rather than a yellow-painted room with a white dresser and an oval mirror, she stared at a sparse wooden one with two chests in the corner.

Confusion gripped her as she tried to remember what happened last night, but a sharp pain instantly stopped her prodding. She released a groan.

The snoring ceased. “Rosalind?”

She opened her eyes and couldn’t speak. Phearson sat in a chair next to her with concern in his eyes. “I know it hurts. Can I do somethin’ for ye, lass?”

“Phearson? Where am I? How did I get here?” She lifted onto her elbow, and more agony pierced through her. She collapsed onto her back as waves of misery pulsed through her head.

“Rosalind, dona move. Ye were shot last night, then ye slammed into the carriage.”

She sucked in air and forced her eyes to open. “Who shot me? Captain Fear?”

“No, the Pious Twelve did.”

Bitterness stained his usual jovial voice. His lips turned back into a sneer, and hate flashed in his eyes. Mr. Doyle was a member of the Pious Twelve and had his cronies come to the house to meet, but both she and her mother were shunned from their plotting.

She frowned as fear settled into her gut. Had her stepfather ordered them to kill her? “Why would they shoot me?”

“Ye know of them?”

“Yes, Mr. Doyle is a member. He’s had them over to the house many times.”

He leaned back in his chair. “So, ye know what they do?”

“A little. I know they hunt the undead. Mr. Doyle is very superstitious and believes we have vampires lurking in Savannah.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ye dona believe this tale?”

“No. Unfortunately, I think the Pious Twelve prey on who they claim are the undesirables.” She put her forearm over her forehead. “I am sure the poor souls have something that Mr. Doyle wants and what better way to get it than to accuse them of being vampires, kill them, and then take what they want.”

"So, you dona approve. How can ye live with such a man?"

She bristled. "I do not have much of a choice. If I could leave I would, but I have nowhere else to go, especially after the ruby was stolen. The ruby was my ticket to a new life." Tears swelled in her eyes, and then she took a long quivering breath.

“Who was the man who gave ye the ruby?"

She shrugged. "To be truthful, I don't know. He said he knew my father and that my father would have wanted me to have it."

“Do ye believe him?"

“That he knew my father?"

He nodded. “Aye.”

"I don't know." She clenched her fists. “The ruby was mine and Captain Fear had no right to take it from me. I hope the Pious Twelve finds him and hangs him.” Her voice shook with anger.

Phearson flinched.

Heat floated over her cheeks. “I am sorry. I usually don't lose my temper like that. What happened to Captain Fear?"

Phearson stared at her for a long minute. He opened his mouth, but then quickly closed it.

“Phearson, did you fight him?”

"No, I didna. Yer here and yer safe. That’s all that matters. Are ye hungry, lass?"

She shook her head. “No. Food is the last thing I want.” She looked around the room. “Is this where you live?”

“Aye. ’Tis sparse, but clean.” He focused on her again. “If you got the ruby back, would Doyle take it from ye again like he did earlier?”

"Probably. But he doesn’t have it–Captain Fear does.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I think so.” She frowned. “The robbery all happened so fast. But I guess it’s possible my stepfather has it. If it's at the house, I have a good chance of finding it. Mr. Doyle keeps everything of value in a safe." She smiled. "But I know the combination. The pompous ass uses his own birthday."

“That's interesting. What does he keep in his safe?"

“Important papers and the family jewels.”

“What kind of jewels?”

“Diamonds, pearls, and emeralds.”

Greed flashed in his eyes, then vanished. He tapped the side of his face with his finger. “Ye need some ice to put on yer cheek where Doyle hit ye.”

Rosalind immediately clapped hands on her cheeks. Oh lord, the mask was gone! She couldn’t breathe, and her stomach clenched. Phearson had seen her terrible scars. “Where is my mask?” Panic made her voice shrill.

“Calm down. ’Twas soaked in blood. I had to wash it out."

She quickly rolled away from him and curled up in a ball. "Don't look at me. Please, just give me my mask. I don't want you to see me like this. I am a monster." Her voice choked.

He gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Rosalind, yer not a monster. Yer a beautiful, wounded woman.”

“Yes, I am. Please bring me my mask. Please.” She hated begging, but she hated pity even more, especially Phearson’s. She bit her lips as tears drizzled down her face, staining the pillow. She grabbed her hair to cover her face. She wanted people to look at her as being mysterious not as a freak.

He left her. His quiet footsteps shuffled on the wooden floor.

“Here. ’Tis still wet.” He dangled it in front of her face.

She reached for it, but blinding pain shot through her skull, and she hissed.

“Yer in pain. Let me put it on for you.”

She tried to sit up, but agony exploded in her skull. She cried out and passed out.

* * *

Rosalind woke to the tantalizing smell of chicken. Sunlight shone on two chests tucked in a corner. Memory flashed over her–the ruby, the robbery, the tenderness.

Phearson had cared for her better than even her mother had.

She wasn’t home.

She was at Phearson’s–without a chaperon.

Her mother and Mr. Doyle would never forgive her. She shuddered at what awaited for her at home.

She slowly moved around. Phearson was at the stove, cooking something that made her mouth water and her stomach growl. He wore a pistol on his hip and a sword on the other.

“Phearson, who are you?”

He turned around and flashed her a heart-warming smile. “So, yer awake? Are ye hungry?”

“Actually, I am. But first tell me, who are you?”

“That’s an odd question. Ye’ve known me for me almost a week now.”

“But I don’t really know anything about you except that you despise Mr. Doyle almost much as I do.”

He dished a bowl for her and came over to the cot. “I thought ’twas obvious.”

She bristled. “No, it’s not.”

“Dona be angry.” He handed her the bowl. “’Twas only a jest. I’m a pirate.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing. Dona believe everything ye’ve heard about pirates. I would never hurt ye, Rosalind.”

She stared at the steamy bowl that had bits of chicken, carrots, and celery, which smelled incredible. But what if he’d laced it with something? “How do I know this?”

“Have I ever hurt ye?” he asked softly.

“No,” she said slowly. “You haven’t, but pirates are not trustworthy.”

“Most of what you said is true.” He filled a bowl for himself. “I sailed with the deadliest crew, and we brought terror to any ship that sailed in the Caribbean.”

“What was the name of your ship?”

“The Fiery Damsel.”

Her heart stilled. “But that legendary ship is at least one hundred years old.” She’d heard rumors in the Inn about the ship that was supposed to be manned by vicious vampires. She’d never believed in the tales.

Until now.

“Ye’ve heard of it?”

She nodded wordlessly. That would make him––no, she was letting her imagination get away from her. It had to be the bump on her head.

“I was like one of those poor souls that yer devil stepfather is selling into slavery.”

“You were?”

“Aye. My captain was the devil himself. If I didna follow his orders, I’d feel the lash on my back.” He fell quiet, and his eyes grew distant. “Or worse.”

“At the Inn, men have spoken about the Damsel–spun wild stories.”

He looked at her underneath lowered lashes. “What stories?”

“I’m sure they’re not true. Sailors are very superstitious.” She avoided looking at him, wishing she’d never brought up the nightmarish stories.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done, Rosalind, but I had to do it to survive.”

Not wanting to continue this conversation, she took the coward’s way out. “This soup is actually very good.”

He smiled. “Ye like it? My mother used to make it before she died.”

“’Tis very good.”

“What about you? I dona know much about ye except that ye want to stop yer stepfather and fiancé from selling men at the Inn.”

“I don’t want to marry Captain Foster. He’s a leach and a coward. When the creature flew around in the bar, he used me as a human shield.”

“Why is Doyle forcing your marriage?”

“He wants me to marry the captain so he can inherit his half of their little scheme. I don’t want any part of it.”

He rubbed his chin. “There might be a way out of this for ye.”

“What?”

“We would rob yer stepfather’s safe and steal your mother’s jewels.”

“And then what?” Fear crawled up her spine. “He would know ’twas me.”

“I promise ye, I wona let him hurt ye. Come away with me.”

She frowned and put her hand on her cheek. “Why would you want that?”

He gently removed her hand from her cheek. “Because yer a lovely lass.”

She didn’t believe him and pulled on her hand, but he held it firm. “Phearson, let go of my hand.”

He sighed. “What must I do to prove to ye that ye are a comely lass?”

“Stop saying this. We both know the truth. What are your plans for me?”

“Plans?”

“Am I a prisoner here?”

“No, of course not. Ye can leave when ye choose.” He drew his brows together. “Do ye want to return?”

She hesitated. “I should. Hopefully, the fools won’t try to shoot me again.” She handed him back the empty bowl, and the little movement sent a stabbing pain in the back of her head. She grimaced, then slowly lowered herself to the cot.

He put a warm cloth across her forehead. “Ye need to rest. The Pious Twelve were not aiming at ye. They were aiming at me.”

“I’ll just close my eyes for a while.”

But she soon discovered that a while turned into much, much longer.

Chapter 11

Rosalind woke up to a teapot singing on the stove. Phearson was gone. He’d left something cooking and had draped a blanket over her. She gingerly lifted off the bed, careful not to trigger another stabbing pain and only experienced a throbbing pain. She gasped when she realized she only wore her shift. She immediately lifted a hand to her cheek and sighed with relief as she felt her leather mask. Across from the cot, her dress was neatly folded on the chest.

She slowly walked over to the stove, grabbed a cloth, then picked up the jostling teapot. Phearson had left out an infuser filled with loose tea and a mug. She put the infuser in the mug, then poured the hot water. She returned the teapot on a towel while she waited for the tea to brew. She picked up the lid and found meat stew. Phearson had been busy and so quiet she hadn’t even heard him.

But where was he? Was she a prisoner like she’d been with her stepfather? She hurried over to the door and put her hand on the doorknob. She turned it, and it clicked. She could leave anytime.

And go where?

She walked over to the window, leaned her forehead against the pane. The street was deserted except for the fluttering trees. The glowing moon and starlight did little to ease her heart.

She sighed and decided to get dressed. She put on the dress just as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

The door creaked open, and Phearson stepped inside. His face was flushed, and for a moment, she’d thought his eyes were red, but she shook her head. His eyes were the same sea blue. He smiled and flashed his gaze over her.

“Yer finally awake. Ye slept like the dead, and I tried to be quiet, so as not to disturb ye.”

She motioned with her hand toward the stove. “Teapot woke me. Where were you?”

“Workin’ at the tavern. Where else?”

“What did Mr. Doyle say?”

“The place was abuzz with yer disappearance, blaming it on Captain Fear. Doyle bragged how the Pious Twelve tried to save ye.”

“Save me?” She snorted. “He would.”

“Would ye like to eat? Sit, and I’ll dish it up.”

Rosalind wanted to trust Phearson, but he said he was a hundred years old. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it and couldn’t still her pattering heart that threatened to run away. How could he be human? If he wasn’t human what was he?

She forced herself to stay calm like she did whenever her stepfather threatened her. She took long deep breaths, filling her lungs. She inhaled the spicy stew that smelled tasty, but her knotted insides were a mess. Eating was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t have a choice.

She sat in the chair next to her bed, her insides quaking, while Phearson dished up a plate of steaming hot stew, then brought her the cup of tea.

“Looks good. Where did you learn to cook?” Surprisingly, her voice sounded normal.

“When our cook grew ill, my captain forced me. I quickly learned to cook.” Trouble flashed in his eyes.

Rosalind refrained from prying. “Well, it smells wonderful.”

He grinned. “I found I actually enjoy cooking when not being threatened to have my skin peeled off if I burned the captain’s fish.”

Despite her rebelling insides, Rosalind took a bite and chewed slowly before she swallowed. The meat was succulent and the vegetables flavorful. After another few bites, her insides calmed, and her hunger took over. She quickly cleaned her plate.

“Would ye like some more?”

Heat warmed her cheeks. “No. The least I can do is wash the dishes after you have taken care of me.”

“I can–”

“No, I insist.” She wobbled when she stood.

Phearson was at her side. “Yer still not completely well. Dishes can wait until morning.” He helped her sit back on the bed and carried the dishes to the sink.

“I hate to ask this, but did my stepfather and Captain Foster drug any young men?”

He scowled. “I think they were, but the tavern became so busy, all of a sudden I noticed the man and those two bastards were gone. I should have paid more attention.”

“We have to stop them.”

“We?”

“Yes. I can’t sit by and do nothing.”

“But ye could get hurt.”

She touched the stitches on her temple. “I have already gotten hurt.”

“I know.” He came sat next to her on the cot. “But I dona want ye to be hurt anymore.”

“Why?”

He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She flinched. “Don’t. I’m a monster.”

She tensed as he caressed the back of her neck.

“Rosalind, how often have ye been kissed?”

She lifted her gaze, not enough to meet his, but enough to focus on the lopsided grin that played on his lips. “Only by you.”

He brushed his hand over her tousled hair. “A woman as beautiful as ye needs to be kissed.”

“I am–”

He put his rough finger on her lips. “Aye, ye are.”

He moved his hands to her shoulders and captured her lips with his. He moved his lips to her temple, on her leather cheek without any hesitation, seeking out her ear. Like before, she turned to stone, but as his tongue gently, but stubbornly pushed open her lips, the tension pent up inside her dwindled. He rolled his tongue in her mouth, and she found herself joining the dance. He moved his hands up and down her trembling arms. She was also conscious of the veiled power in those hands–hands powerful enough to take what they wanted.

But Phearson wasn’t forcing himself. His breath was hard and warm on her skin. “We should stop.”

She looked into his eyes and saw a promise of heat and sin and pleasure beyond her wildest imagination.

Rosalind thought of Captain Foster and what it would be like to endure his dreaded kisses, his touch. She made a bold decision–one she hoped she wouldn’t regret. “No, don’t.”

“Are ye sure? I’d like to think I’m an honorable man, but there is only so much I can stand.”

“Phearson, I’m betrothed to an old man who sickens me. Do you think he can give me a night to remember?”

He laughed. “No, he canna. Then, let’s make some memories.”

He gently pushed her down onto the cot and covered her body with his large frame. His hands didn’t stop moving, stroking, and smoothing over her arms. Her heart was thundering so loud she was sure he could hear it. He moved his lips over her neck, and she moved her hands over his large shoulders, impressed by his strength.

He sat up and wiggled out of his shirt. She marveled at his broad chest, and she lifted her shaking hands to go on a shy and exploring journey. She hesitantly, but boldly, caressed his skin, then swirled her fingers around the silky hair around his nipples and realized that his nipples were aroused. He sucked in his breath and put both his hands on either side of her shoulders.

“Yer tempting me.” His voice was heavy and husky.

He kissed her hard and possessively.

She returned his passion, then ran her hand down his back, but instead of feeling smoothness she felt raised skin. She frowned. “Are those scars?”

He kissed her lips. “I told ye I had a harsh and cruel captain.”

“He whipped you?”

“Among other things, but I dona want to think about him, I only want to concentrate on ye.”

He lay on top of her, and his hand bunched up her dress and edged up her leg. Her heart quickened, and she trembled as he cupped the juncture between her thighs. She gasped. It felt so good, but it was so wrong. Her mother had taught her to save herself for a husband, but her mother was handing her over to a man that thought nothing of selling men into slavery.

“Phearson,” she said, her voice was heavy. “If we stole Mother’s jewels, what would you do?”

“Bribe a crew and finally be captain.”

She looked into his dreamy eyes and thought of the sea–away from her stepfather and away from the dreary nights of working in the Inn and away from a betrothed who would make her life an endless misery. “Would you take me?”

“Ye would be my pirate princess.”

She wanted to believe him, but he was an admitted thief–and a hundred years old and possibly not human. What if the only thing he wanted was the combination to the safe? Her choices were slim, and so far, he’d been a champion at every turn.

The tunnel and imprisoned men flashed into her mind. “But what about the Pirate’s House Inn?”

“I have a plan for that. One Doyle will never forget.”

She frowned. “What would–”

“Not now.” He suckled her neck, and all thought left her head.

“Before we do this, I have to know, what are you?”

He turned his head way. “I canna lie to you.” He turned, and she froze.

His eyes were bright red. “I’m cursed. I’m a vampire.”

Her breath silenced, and she couldn’t help if this was her last one.

His eyes returned to their natural color. “’Tis not what ye think. A demon cursed a lake, and I unknowingly drank from it.”

Her heart thundering, she found her voice. “You’ve killed.”

“Aye, if I didna my captain would–”

“Torture you?”

“I had to do what he asked to survive.”

“Am I next?”

He shook his head. “No, never. I am a man first, Rosalind. Can ye accept me?”

Fear crept into his eyes as hers diminished. Ever since she’d met him, he’d done what was right. He’d defended her when no man ever had. He cared about people and stood up against her stepfather. Vampire or man, he’d been there when she needed him most.

He lowered his head. “I think I should take a dip in that river.”

The sadness in his voice brought her out of her dilemma. Right or wrong, she’d made her decision.

She pressed her palms against his cheeks. “No, I want you.”

“Are ye sure?”

“You’re going to make me ask again?”

Desire filled his eyes. His answer was to move her quaking thighs apart and wedge his hips between them. Her eyes widened at the bulge pushing against her. Panic filled her, but she didn’t want to lose her virginity to a pompous old man. Phearson might have cast an unearthly spell on her, but she’d rather lose herself to him than Captain Foster.

“Please get up,” she urged.

He groaned and lowered his head, but rolled off her.

“I definitely need to dip into the river,” he mumbled. His eyes widened when she slipped off her dress followed by the shift. “Rosalind.” He flashed his gaze over her, and appreciation flared in his eyes.

He took her hand and helped her back into the cot.

“Love me,” she said, her voice tiny.

Phearson smiled, then his calloused hands were on her naked body, exploring every inch of her. He kissed her, then his mouth lefts hers, licking and lapping her skin. She wiggled beneath him, sweet sensations rolling through her. He took her nipple into his mouth while she clawed her hands into his thick hair. She arched her back, allowing him to take more of her flesh.

He slid his hand down toward her jungle of curls and slipped a finger inside her and moved it back and forth, drawing a passion that she never knew she had. Unfamiliar, but fierce, sensations rushed through her. On instinct, she moved her legs apart even further. She explored his hot skin, feeling his muscles bulge beneath her palm.

Her heart beat wildly as he pushed off her, and in one quick move, removed his trousers. He returned, his fervor stronger. He was poised between her thighs, hard and muscular, a man used to taking what he wanted. He kissed her, then with one hard thrust, he was inside her. Sharp pain ripped through her, but once he slowly shifted his cock back and forth, the pain eased, replaced with a friction between flesh upon flesh. He thrust his hips again and again, each time sliding his cock deeper inside. An explosion of pressure built inside her until she thought she’d die. Her orgasm came fast and fierce, and she arched her back, calling out his name.

Phearson quickened his thrusting hips, then his slick body trembled as his hot seed poured into her feminine core. He collapsed on top of her, resting his head in the crook of her neck. He panted hard, his warm breath making her skin even hotter.

“I am sorry. I dona know what happened. I should have gone slower.”

She caressed his head. “I’m not complaining.”

He looked up at her, then kissed the hollow between her breasts. “I promise I’ll teach ye things that will give ye so much pleasure ye’ll beg for more.”

She played with his hair. “That confident, are you?”

“Aye.”

The mischief in his eyes made her break out into a hot flush, wanting to feel his hands and lips on her flesh again.

Chapter 12

Phearson had never met anyone like Rosalind. She accepted him both as a man and a vampire–something he’d never expected. He planned to climb out of bed or sleep, but he couldn’t resist exploring her body one more time. He sucked in his breath as she kissed him, licking and lapping his nipples.

He grew hard again and wanted her, but he wanted her hot and wriggling for him.

“Lay still, vixen.”

He slowly licked and kissed his way down her stomach, his tongue swirling in her belly button.

“What are you doing?”

“Driving ye mad.” He edged down the bed until he was over her feminine curls. He lapped up her sweet cream.

“Phearson!”

He laughed at her shocked voice, but didn’t stop. Her protests turned to soft whimpers and moans. He licked the budded pearl then darted his tongue inside her velvet opening. She screamed out his name.

“I can’t take this anymore. Please!”

He rose over her body, and in one swift move, he thrust deeper, taking long strides. She matched his rhythm, harder and faster. Blood swirled between his temples and pulsed in his flesh. She released her passion in a loud cry and scraped her nails across his back. Sweat trickled down his body, and he trembled. He tossed back his head and released himself. His heart raced so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest.

He collapsed onto Rosalind. “Ye never cease to amaze me.”

She stroked his hair, her fingernails brushing over his scalp.

He shivered.

“I keep thinking about those jewels and what would happen if we stole them.”

He lifted his head. “What do ye think would happen?”

“If we are lucky, a new life.” But she tensed beneath him. “If caught, I truly believe my stepfather would kill me.”

He brushed her hair off her face. “I promise I will never let him hurt ye.”

She studied him as if trying to determine if he was a bald-faced liar. He held her gaze and refused to look away.

“Night will be the best time to go. Mother is home alone while he is at the bar. You won’t hurt her, will you?”

He shook his head. “She wona even know I was there.”

“What about the tunnel? You said you had a plan.” She ran her leg down his.

He shivered, trying to concentrate. “I think we have to make it so terrifying in the tunnel that Doyle would never want to use it.”

“What would scare him so bad?”

He wasn’t sure if he should say it or not, but he blurted, “Captain Fear seems to scare him.”

“Captain Fear.” She trembled. “He’s terrifying. I saw his eyes through his mask–they were dark red. I’ve never seen anything like it before until you. He’s a vampire. He has to be. But maybe he’s not like you, Phearson. He could turn on us. There has to be another way.”

“I dona know.” He kissed the top of her forehead, wishing he could tell her the truth, but the fear in her eyes silenced him. He hoped they could rob Doyle’s house without him drawing on his vampire powers. He held her close. “First, we need those jewels.”

She laid her head against his rapidly beating heart. “Tonight, let’s go tonight.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

With the ruby, and if those jewels were as valuable as Rosalind hinted, then he’d be close enough to bribe a crew. Normally, he would just take the prize and run, but Rosalind had touched him. Rather than only thinking of himself and how to survive, he was thinking about a woman and how to save her.

* * *

Phearson and Rosalind waited in Colonial Cemetery for Doyle to leave. Rather than wearing a dress, she was clothed in a pair of his trousers that were rolled up and a shirt. With her leather mask, he thought she looked more enticing, more daring, more mysterious than her usually drab dress. He had difficulty concentrating as he inhaled her sweet smell of magnolia.

Doyle wasn’t a fool and left a few men at the house. One was Matthews, who looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. He paced back and forth on the porch with a pistol drawn. Phearson didn’t recognize the other two, but they looked like they were between thirty to forty years old but not in the best of shape. They definitely were not used to hard labor.

“I know those men,” Rosalind whispered. “They are the ones who meet with Mr. Doyle in secret in his study.”

He narrowed his eyes. “They’re part of the Pious Twelve.”

He couldn’t hide the anger in his voice.

“I wonder if they were even looking for me.”

The sadness in her voice touched his heart.

He picked up her hand and kissed her wrist. “I will always come for ye.”

Gratitude glistened in her eyes.

“What are we going to do?”

“Remember–I am a vampire.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you going to kill all of them?”

He kissed her forehead. “Only if I have to. They need to learn a lesson. They kill all vampires, even the ones who do not kill their victims. They only take what they need and leave their victims alive.”

“I have never heard of such a thing. They existed in my time and now, in Savannah. But the Pious Twelve is hunting them down. It’s time for them to learn that not all vampires are easy to kill.” He looked into her wary eyes, holding his breath. “D’ye trust me?”

She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You know I do.”

“You’re a tempting wench.” He pressed her body against the tree.

“Phearson, what are you doing? We don’t have time for this.”

He could feel her heart beating as hard as his. He thought he could do this as a man, but not with three of the Pious Twelve guarding the house. They’d be more dangerous this time.

He hesitated. “I have to tell ye something.”

She frowned. “What?”

He lowered his head and gently covered her mouth with his palm.

“Phearson,” she muffled. She squirmed.

Her curves and hips alarmingly aroused his eager body. Ignoring the desire to kiss her again, he drew on his vampire power. His fangs lengthened, and strength flooded through his muscles. He was stronger, faster than a man and about to terrorize a woman who had the power to steal his heart.

He slowly lifted his head and looked into her now wide eyes. She immediately stopped moving and sucked in her breath.

“I’m Captain Fear.”

She struggled, kicking her feet and pushing on his chest.

“Listen to me.” He pressed his body against her, pinning her to the tree and stopping her useless struggles. “I’m not going to hurt ye. I would never hurt ye, lass. I thought I could go in there as a man, but there are three of the Pious Twelve. Our only hope is for Captain Fear to distract them. D’ye understand?”

She stared at him with owl eyes.

“D’ye promise not to scream?”

She nodded.

“Good. I’m going to slowly remove my hand.”

He held her gaze as he dropped his hand and stepped away from her. Her chest rose and fell, and she leaned her head against the tree, watching him.

“You lied to me.”

Her cold voice chilled him.

“What?” He was expecting horror and terror, but not anger and hate.

“You have both the ruby and the watch, don’t you?”

“Aye, I do.”

She slapped him hard across the face. “You bastard. You planned to doublecross me, didn’t you?”

Most men would have run screaming from the truth of his vampire form, but Rosalind rose up against him. He grabbed both her shoulders. “I wouldn’t double cross you. Do you want to do this, or not?”

Anger, hesitation, resignation fell across her face. Her shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

“After this, ye do not have to see me again.”

She winced, but didn’t answer. He wanted her to plead to stay with him, but she didn’t. He should have known. Women like her didn’t want to be with a man like him.

Hoping she wouldn’t turn and run, he said, “I’m going to attack. Wait until the men are concentrated on me.”

“But you could be killed.”

“No, I canna. I’m immortal.”

“Of course, you are. Just go.”

Her dismissive behavior tore at his soul, but ’twas not the first time a lady had looked down at him, and it wouldn’t be the last. He should have just stuck with his whores. At least he knew what to expect from them.

Not looking at her, he drew on his vampire powers––muscles and bones crunched and shortened––and he transformed into a large bat.

“Oh, my God!” She put her hand over her mouth.

He flew straight at Matthews screeching.

“My God!” Matthews screamed as he aimed his pistol. He fired just as the two men rushed out of the house.

The shot whizzed past Phearson. Matthews reloaded, but before he could fire, Phearson unleashed his talons and banged into his head hard. Matthews slammed his head into the wall and passed out.

The lights went on at a nearby house. A man called out. “What’s going on out there?”

A man with a shrill voice called out, “Get back inside. ’Tis a vampire.”

The two men fired wildly at Phearson. He changed back into a man. One of the men brought out a knife and poured water onto it, which Phearson assumed was holy salt water.

The man held the knife over his head. “Prepare to die, demon.”

“Ye think it’s that is easy to kill me?”

Phearson advanced on them, and the two of them backed away from the house. He hoped Rosalind was making her way toward the house, but he hadn’t seen her yet. He needed to keep these two codfishes busy to give her a chance to get to the safe. He lunged. The man swiped the dagger but was too slow. Phearson grabbed his arm and sank his teeth into his flesh. His partner turned and ran down the street screaming.

Phearson dropped his opponent, who landed on the group, unconscious. The bastard was lucky Phearson didn’t kill him. He turned around to look for Rosalind, but didn’t he see her. She could be hiding in the cemetery or lurking in the house or running away. He knew ’twas a matter of minutes before his enemies brought more reinforcements. He needed the jewelry and hoped Rosalind made the choice to steal her stepfather’s jewels.

He stepped over Matthew’s body and entered the house. ’Twas an ornate home with leather couches, stained glass lamps, dark hardwood floors. But what struck him most was the painting of Doyle that hung over the fireplace. With his chest puffed out and the leer glistening in his eyes, the artist had captured his arrogance and greed.

“Rosalind, where are you going?”

A woman’s voice drew his attention away from the painting.

“My room.”

He crept down the corridor past a parlor and toward an open door. He peered around the corner.

“We have to get out of here.” An older woman with the same eyes as Rosalind was dressed in a red gown and wrung her hands. “Didn’t you hear those poor men screaming?”

“Then go pack your bags, Mother. Hurry.”

The woman hurried out of the parlor, and Phearson disappeared into the shadows.

A landscape painting was on the floor. Rosalind spun a dial on a safe, then it made a click. He held his breath. She pulled out several black velvet boxes and put them on an ornate oak table. He held his breath as she slowly opened one. Light glittered off a diamond necklace.

He stepped out of the shadows. “So, ’tis true. Doyle has a small fortune hidden in his safe.”

Rosalind quickly shut the case and stepped back. She put her hand on her heart. “My God, your face.” Her voice trembled with fear.

Phearson looked down and grimaced. His cloak had a huge stain. He glanced at his reflection in a mirror hanging in the parlor and groaned. Blood dripped down his chin and onto his throat. He looked like something straight out of hell.

“Who’s down there?” Rosalind’s mother called. “Esmond, is that you?”

Hurried footsteps pitter-pattered down the stairs. Phearson glanced over his shoulder. The woman rushed down the stairs holding her gown high enough to reveal her ankles. “Esmond, you won’t–” She stopped mid-sentence.

“Good evening, madam.”

The blood drained from her face, and then she released a banshee scream. Her eyes fluttered backward, and she fainted. She collapsed onto the stairs. Phearson rushed up the stairs two at a time and lifted her into his arms. He carried her down to the parlor and laid her on the sofa.

“Please, don’t bite her.”

Phearson whirled around. “I won’t feast on yer mother. Would ye rather have her roll down the stairs, hitting her head on everyone?”

She blushed and lowered her head. “No.”

“D’ye still have the sack?”

She nodded and pulled out a burlap sack. She picked up one box, and her hand shook so bad that she dropped it on the floor.

When she bent to pick it up, Phearson grabbed the sack and stuffed the rest of the boxes inside. “We canna stay here long. I’m sure the rest of the Pious Twelve and yer stepfather are on their way.”

Rosalind gasped and grabbed his arm.

“Correction, we are already here.”

Phearson cursed at the cold voice. How the hell had Doyle gotten here so fast? He’d been so focused on the jewels he had failed to pay attention to his vampire senses.

He shoved Rosalind behind him and whirled around. Doyle and four of his hooded friends crowded the hallway. There was no going out that way. Two more blocked the opposite way.

Rosalind tightened her grip, her nails digging into his flesh. “Phearson.”

Her voice was heavy with questions that he couldn’t answer. Yet he was fast and could get them out of here before any of the fools moved.

Doyle narrowed his eyes. “My bartender is Captain Fear?” He slammed his arm down. “Now!”

Something sharp pierced Phearson’s neck. Hot searing pain surged through his veins. He yanked a long, pointed dart out of his flesh.

“Coated with holy salt water.” Doyle smiled. “Soon you will be paralyzed and at my mercy.”

Phearson raised an eyebrow. “Mercy? I doubt it.”

As the water pumped through him, his arms tingled and grew weaker. With each heartbeat, he felt his strength waning. ’Twas only a matter of time before he collapsed. He drew on his vampire strength. Luckily, he’d just fed and could battle the growing numbness.

Another dart slammed into his back. The numbness grew stronger. His vision blurred. If he passed out, he and Rosalind would both be dead.

Doyle unleashed a sword. “You’re growing paler, Captain Fear. You’re already swaying on your feet. I’ll mount your head on my fireplace. Now give me back my jewels.”

He lunged with the sword high over his head.

Phearson clutched the bag tight, and taking a deep breath, he squeezed out his last remaining power. Hating himself for abandoning Rosalind, he sped out of the room faster than a soaring eagle.

“Phearson!”

Her pitiful cry stole his heart, but he had no choice.

“Seize her!” Doyle yelled.

Phearson grimaced. If he would have carried her, it would have slowed him down, and they’d both be caught. He’d had no idea how potent holy salt water was and foolishly he thought he was more powerful.

Phearson flew out of the house, his feet barely touching the ground. He startled the horses waiting outside. They neighed and pranced. He tried changing into a bat, but nothing happened.

“After him, you fools,” Doyle yelled.

Shouts and heavy footsteps clamored out of the house.

“We’ve got him now!” someone yelled.

His heart beating wildly, Phearson shot into the cemetery. Horses galloped after him. He refused to be hunted down like Pierce, his body tossed into the river for alligators to feast on. He quickly climbed a nearby oak tree and crouched down on a branch. Darkness covered the cemetery, and his pursuers had to hold lanterns to see where they were going. Their pursuit slowed.

“Where did he go?” Doyle demanded. “He couldn’t have gotten far–not with two darts of holy salt water pumping through his veins.” He urged his horse forward.

“I saw him go through here,” another man said.

Hoping for surprise, Phearson jumped out of the tree and knocked Doyle off his horse. Doyle screamed. Phearson dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The men chased him out of the cemetery and onto the cobblestone street. He only had one chance and headed toward the slow moving Savannah River.

Shots hissed past him. His vision grew dim, and the river went in and out of focus. The horse came alongside of the riverbank.

“We have him now!” a triumphant voice cheered.

Phearson stood on the horse, and in one desperate attempt, dove into the black river, still clutching the burlap sack of jewels. He swam underwater against the current until he thought he’d pass out. He clawed his way to the surface, praying he didn’t run into an alligator. He popped his head out of the water. His limbs were spent. His pursuers were a ways down, looking for him. He forced himself to swim to the bank and crawled up on shore. Pain burned through him. The sky buzzed around him faster and faster.

A torn canvas lay spread out on the ground. Obviously, someone was supposed to be mending it. He dragged himself toward it, then covered himself and passed out into oblivion.

Chapter 13

The two men held on tight to Rosalind’s arms. Her heavy heart slowed to a sad beat. She couldn’t believe Phearson had abandoned her. He hadn’t even tried to take her with him. What a fool she was! All he’d wanted was the jewels. And like a foolish, lonely girl, she’d believed him.

Her stepfather burst through the door, brushing dirt off his clothes. “Damn it!”

Hate flared in his eyes. He stormed over to Rosalind and punched her in the face. Pain exploded in her eye.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her toward him. “The only way he could have gotten into my safe is if you opened it.”

Rosalind kept her mouth shut. She had no defense, no plea, no excuse.

Suddenly, he released her. “I won’t beat you. But I can’t allow this to go unpunished. Tomorrow, you’ll join your father.” He motioned with his hand. “Take her to her room.”

Her mother pushed herself up from the couch, her face stricken. “You can’t be serious, Esmond!”

“I can’t abide by this, Clare.”

She sat up straight. “But she’s my daughter.”

“You’re right. She’s your daughter. Not mine.”

She walked over to him. “I won’t let you kill my child.”

“I’m your husband.”

“Mother.” Rosalind shook her head. Her stepfather was extremely dangerous right now. He’d been evil before, but now he’d lost his treasure.

“No, Rosalind.” She put her shoulders back. “I won’t let him kill you. The provost will hear of this. Rosalind deserves a fair tr–”

Mr. Doyle struck her mother across the face, and she fell to the floor.

“Yes, you will. Lock her in my room. I will deal with her later.”

“You bastard!” Rosalind pulled on her arms and kicked her feet, but the men only gripped her tighter, their fingers digging into her flesh. “Leave her alone.”

Her mother turned her head and blood dribbled from her upper lip. Shock shone in her wide eyes. Her husband had never hit her.

Until now.

Rosalind’s captors dragged her up the stairs and tossed her into her bedroom. She fell onto her knees.

The door slammed shut, and the sound of the lock rang in her ears. She rushed to the door and leaned against it. Anger and remorse flooded through her. Phearson, not her stepfather, had stolen all of her dreams. She would never escape, never going to save the poor men down at the Pirate’s House Inn.

She pounded her fist against the oak as tears flooded her eyes. How could she have been so blind? And now, not only was her life in danger but her mother’s as well. All because she’d trusted the wrong man.

The right side of her face throbbed horribly, and her eye swelled shut. She sat on the bed and rubbed her tender arms. Tomorrow, she’d definitely have bruises. Was her stepfather really going to kill her? She didn’t want to die. Didn’t he want her to marry Captain Foster? She froze. What if his plan was to kill her all long?

She wasn’t going to sit here helpless. Maybe she couldn’t get out, but she could have the element of surprise.

Desperate, she tore her room apart, looking for anything to use as a weapon. She opened the armoire, but only gowns hung neatly. She went over to her dresser and opened a drawer. She pulled out a hand mirror and glanced at her reflection. The skin around her puffy eye had turned purplish red. Tears had stained her dreaded mask. She smashed the mirror, hating herself.

The mirror shattered. This was her weapon.

She pulled out a large shard of glass, careful not to slice her finger. She took a ribbon and tied the shard around the end of her mirror. ’Twas not a sword or dagger, but it would be enough to stab whoever walked into the room and give her a chance to escape.

She narrowed her eyes. “Or stab a traitorous vampire in his black heart.”

* * *

Sunlight slowly chased the night away, and Rosalind’s stepfather strangely enough did not come into her bedroom, strangely enough. Maybe he’d just said he’d kill her in anger. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

Heavy footsteps thumped on the hardwood floor. Her heart racing, she pressed her back against the wall, her weapon high over her head.

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. A man walked into the room, his back to her. Not caring who it was, she stabbed him in the shoulder. He cried out and grabbed his arm.

Two men rushed around him and cornered her, their pistols drawn. Her stepfather came up behind them.

“Put that weapon down.”

“No,” she said, as she swiped at him. “Stay away from me.”

He flinched, the bloodied glass narrowly missing his arm. “You can die with a bullet to your heart or hang from the tree. Either way, you will die.”

She gripped her blade tighter. “You can’t do this. It’s murder.”

“Is it? You’ll find the provost and I have an arrangement.” He pulled a piece of paper with the seal of justice on it. “When I told him that ’twas Captain Fear who murdered his boy, and you were his accomplice, he gladly signed permission for me to hang you. He wants revenge as much as I do. So, since we can’t find him, you’ll do nicely in his place.”

She didn’t care if she were shot. She lunged toward him, but one of the men seized her wrist and pinched it until the mirror shard dropped to the floor. He twisted her arm and yanked her backside to him.

Her stepfather flashed his gaze over her then smiled. “That’s better. Time to go.”

Panic blinded her, and she wiggled wildly, but her captor twisted her arm more, and she was only met with more pain.

“Since you’re about to die anyway,” her stepfather said. “I have a secret I’d like to share with you.”

She gasped for breath. “What…secret?”

He whispered into her ear, “I killed your father.”

“What?”

He clasped her chin with his long fingers and pinched hard. “I was the one who started the fire. Both you and your father were supposed to die in that fire. I had no idea the strength that man had.”

“But why, Esmond?”

At her mother’s voice, her stepfather released her. Two men held onto her mother’s arms. Tears glistened in her eyes. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying all night, and she had a purple bruise on her left cheek.

“Because of you, Clare. I wanted you. You belonged to me. You’ve always belonged to me.”

He’d killed her father. He’d killed her father.

Fury boiled inside Rosalind. She wanted to scream, but hate, anger, and shock squeezed her throat.

Her mother yanked on her stepfather’s arms. “I hate you. I hate you.”

“You’ll learn to forgive me,” her stepfather said. “Once this wench is dead, you won’t be chained to her, and we’ll be free to live our lives.”

“You actually think I’ll stay with you?”

“You have no choice. Even if I have to lock you up, you’ll stay with me.”

Her mother shook her head. “No, I’ll fight you. I’ll–” She stopped suddenly. “If you let Rosalind go, I’ll willingly stay with you. But you must promise not to hurt her.”

“Mother, no!”

Her stepfather walked over to her mother and grabbed the back of her head. “Tempting, I’ll admit. But I’ll have you willing or not willing, ’tis no matter to me.”

Her mother spat in his face.

He wiped his face. “Do that again, and I’ll have every one of my men rape your daughter right before your eyes. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” her mother said, her lip trembling. She hung her head.

“Shall we adjourn to the cemetery? We have everything ready.”

Rosalind went limp. She really would hang. No one would rescue her. Her stepfather had won. He had her mother, was going to finally get rid of her. He’d continue kidnapping men and selling them to pirates. The only thing he didn’t have were his jewels.

She clenched her jaw tight, cursing Phearson silently. Even he would get what he wanted. With her ruby and her mother’s jewels, he surely had enough to bribe a crew. But that wasn’t the only thing he’d stolen. He’d stolen her heart. Tears stung her eyes and despair seized her lungs.

The men nearly lifted her off the floor as they followed her stepfather.

Rosalind should be kicking and screaming, but all the rebellion in her died. She was powerless to stop her stepfather and his men. At least she’d finally get to meet her father.

Chapter 14

Phearson woke to a man pulling the sail off him. He shielded his eyes from the morning rays.

“What are ye doing hiding underneath my sail?” a bearded sailor asked.

“’Twas cold last night,” Phearson murmured. He dragged himself to his feet. The sleep had helped restore some of his strength, but he felt like he’d been on a rum feast. His head pounded, and his stomach swirled uneasily. It must have been the holy salt water. He needed blood.

He grabbed the astonished man by the neck and dragged him under the dock.

“Please don’t kill me,” the man pleaded. “Did Captain Hopper send you? I promise I’ll finish mending the sail. Please don’t sell me. I’m too old for hard labor.”

Phearson’s brain was sluggish, but he was sharp enough to realize this man might have something to do with the Pirate’s House Inn and decided to play along to see if he could get information.

“Captain says you’ve been too lazy.”

“No, no. I spoke with Esmond Doyle. We plan to get him some fresh young bucks. Please, I swear that canvas will be mended good as new.”

Phearson thought Hopper was as probably as mean and nasty as Palmer. His crew would be ripe for a mutiny.

Weariness gripped Phearson. He unleashed his fangs and sank them into the man’s neck. The man pushed on Phearson’s chest, but soon grew weak. Normally, he’d drain him dry to please his captain, but Palmer wasn’t here. He was free.

He released the man and left him alive but passed out. Strength renewed him, and the dizziness left him. He rushed toward his flat.

His victory was empty without Rosalind. He hid the sack in his chest, then changed his smelly and now bloody clothes. Anyone a mile away would smell him coming.

He shoved daggers, another pistol, and his sword into his belt. He was an excellent shot and wouldn’t let the Twelve have Rosalind.

He left the flat and hurried toward Doyle’s.

He made his way through the crowded street, not paying attention to the well-dressed men and elegantly dressed women.

“Mr. Palmer?”

Phearson stopped in his tracks. Michael Kelly, the provost’s assistant blocked his path.

“Morning, Mr. Kelly.”

“I wanted to thank you for your information. We were able to track down that creature. ’Twas Captain Fear.”

“You caught him?”

Kelley shook his head. “Sadly, no. But we have caught his accomplice. She’s scheduled to hang today.”

Cold fear stabbed Phearson in the heart. “What?”

“’Twas the business with the provost’s son. Nasty business. He didn’t waste any time getting a judge to sign her execution. No need for a trial.”

Trying to keep the anger out of his voice, he asked, “Where is this execution supposed to take place?”

“That’s the strangest part.” He lowered his voice, “The provost did not want to draw attention to this quick deed, so it’s being done at Colonial Cemetery at noon.”

Doyle’s doing, no doubt. Phearson gritted his teeth, “The Provost is part of the Pious Twelve?”

Kelley looked nervously around. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” He bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Not caring if people noticed, Phearson drew on vampire speed, and faster than the human eye, flashed toward Colonial Cemetery. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

* * *

Phearson’s heart lurched against his ribs. Rosalind sat astride on a horse, blindfolded, her wrists tied behind her back. A noose hung from a tree branch. Doyle and his men surrounded her.

Phearson quickly moved in between the trees like a shadow until he was close enough to hear them. The fools hadn’t posted guards and were all focused on Rosalind. Doyle must think he was safe in the daytime. He’d soon learn this was a fatal mistake.

Still alive, Matthews held the horse’s bridle.

Doyle motioned at Foster. “You will now pay for your sins, Rosalind.”

“My sins?” Rosalind laughed. “I go to see my father with a clear conscience. All I have done is exposed your sins.”

Her supposed bride groom, Foster, climbed on another horse, then moved next to Rosalind. “I wish this could have been different.” He pulled the noose down and draped it around her slender neck.

She jerked away. “I don’t. I never wanted to marry you.”

Foster glowered. “Then die, bitch.”

Phearson unsheathed his sword, then drew on vampire speed.

Doyle brought his arm down. “Hang her!”

The men backed away from the horse, creating a path which was what Phearson needed.

Foster raised his hand to slap the horse’s hindquarters. Phearson raced down the path with his sword raised high over his head. In one swoop, he sliced the rope and dragged Rosalind off the horse onto his.

“You can’t have her.” Foster aimed his pistol at Rosalind.

Anger gripped Phearson. Quick as lightning, he decapitated Barnard’s head and pushed his headless corpse off the stomping horse. It rolled and stopped at Doyle’s feet, splattering blood on the tips of his boots. Barnard’s shocked, lifeless eyes stared up at Doyle.

Doyle screamed.

“’Tis Captain Fear,” Matthews yelled as he fumbled to pull out his pistol.

Phearson jammed his heals into the horse’s flanks and with Rosalind in his lap, they galloped away from the yelling men.

He glanced over his shoulder. They had clambered onto their horses and were in pursuit, but lagged behind. Phearson went deeper into the cemetery then passed into a swamp. Among the thick trees and long vines, he wrapped his arm around Rosalind’s waist, then jumped off the horse, letting it go free. He sheathed his bloodied sword and pulled out a dagger. He cut loose Rosalind’s bindings and tore off her blindfold.

She blinked. “Where are we?”

“Swamp. We’re not free yet. They’re coming. Wrap yer arms around my neck.”

She didn’t argue and did as he asked. He quickly climbed up the tree and settled them on a thick branch that was partly hidden by Spanish Moss.

Rosalind slid her hands down his neck and pressed them against his cheeks. “You came back for me.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist. “I told ye I’d always come back for ye.”

She kissed him hard. ’Twas a desperate, probing kiss that ignited a blaze of fury inside him. He took what she offered, devouring her sweet taste and vowing never to let her go again.

The curses and yells of their pursers forced Phearson to break off the kiss. Rosalind clung to him as the men rode past the tree, none of them looking up into the branches.

“This time, we will hang them both,” Doyle said, as he pulled up on his horse’s reins. “They must have gone around the swamp. It’s the only way.”

The men followed Doyle deeper into the swamp. When they disappeared behind the trees, Phearson lifted Rosalind into his arms and jumped. He put her down.

She glanced where the men had gone nervously. “What are we going to do? They’ll hunt us down.”

He took her shaking hand and kissed her palm. “I have a plan. One that will give yer stepfather nightmares for years. Follow me.”

She trembled under his kiss, and her cheeks turned pink. He noticed then her face was unadorned. “Where is your mask?”

“He took it.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “He wanted me to die a monster.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her. “Ye know yer not a monster. Only a devilish wench who tempts my heart.”

“And you’re the rogue pirate that surprises me at every turn.”

“I have more surprises yet.” He led her out of the swamp. “I have discovered the name of the captain who is taking the kidnapped men at the Pirate’s House Inn.”

Rosalind grabbed his jacket. “Who?”

“Captain Hopper.”

“He’s here?”

“Ye have heard of him?”

“Yes, when I was in the tunnel, Captain Foster and Mr. Doyle called him that name, but I never thought he docked in Savannah.”

He nodded. “Apparently, he has. It appears Captain Hopper is not well liked among his crew. I suspect the crew is ready for a new captain.”

She stepped in front of him. “Like the crew, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He lifted her hair off her shoulder. “I know ye will. I want ye by my side.” He scooped her up in his arms. “We must hurry. Hang on tight.”

Using vampire speed, he ran faster than the human eye could comprehend. Women’s bonnets and men’s top hats flew off their heads as if a gust wind blew.

But there was no wind.

Phearson didn’t care who startled or fell–all that mattered was reaching his room.

Chapter 15

That night, Rosalind crouched with Phearson at the end of the Pirate’s House Inn tunnel. The tunnel ended at a rocky ledge that led to a muddy river embankment. ’The wooden door had been painted the same color as the cliff and was hard to see. ‘Twas only a block away from the Inn. When she’d been in the tunnel, she’d thought it was much longer.

There were ships that were nearby, and Rosalind wondered which one was Hopper’s.

The creaking bugs and lapping water sounded softer than her heavy breathing and beating heart. She was sure Hopper and his men would hear, and they would capture her and Phearson.

Phearson had said that the man he fed from blurted that Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster planned to sell an unsuspecting man to Captain Hopper tonight. He’d brought the chest of stolen jewels from his heists, including her mother’s jewels. He planned to use them to bribe Hopper’s crew to rebel against him.

She wasn’t sure it would work and couldn’t stop trembling. She crowded next to him.

He clasped her hand. “It will be all right. Trust me.”

She wanted to trust him desperately, but her stepfather’s words haunted her. He’d threatened to hang them both. Phearson wasn’t worried, but she was. She could still feel the noose draped around her neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.

Heavy footsteps approached, then three men emerged from the darkness. She froze, not sure what to do next.

Phearson released her hand and stood in front of her. “Good evening.”

“Who are you?”

Rosalind bit her lip to keep from gasping. She recognized the gruff voice from when she’d been in the tunnel.

“I’m Captain Fear. Surely, ye have heard of me.”

The men staggered back. The glowing moonlight revealed the horror in their faces. Phearson must have revealed his fangs.

A man pointed a shaking finger. “But you’re-you’re a vampire.”

“Precisely.”

“What do you want?” Hopper demanded as he unleashed a sword.

“I want to be yer captain.”

Hopper laughed. “Over my dead body.”

Phearson grabbed Hopper by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Hopper dropped his sword and pawed at Phearson’s hands and kicked his feet.

His men did nothing to save him just as Phearson had predicted.

Phearson shook him hard. “I could kill ye now, Captain, and only the alligators would find ye.”

“Kill him,” one of his men said. “I’m tired of feeling his lash upon my back.”

“Aye,” the other said. “He stole me when I was a lad.”

Phearson tilted his head toward Rosalind. “Rosalind, show them the jewels.”

She opened the chest, and the moonlight glistened off the diamonds, emeralds, and rubies inside.

“Ye can split them among the crew,” Phearson said, “as long as I am yer captain.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” They both answered at once.

Without hesitation, Phearson sank his fangs into Hopper’s throat.

Both of the men paled. Hopper’s struggles grew weaker, and Phearson dropped him unceremoniously into the mud.

Phearson wiped his mouth on his sleeve and panted. “He’ll live. But if anyone tries to doublecross me, ye’ll suffer a meaner fate.”

“We understand. What do you want to know?”

“Do ye have an order to fill?”

“Aye, Hopper planned to sell a young buck to a Spaniard’s ship.”

“Well, we must not disappointment him.”

“Phearson, no,” Rosalind cried.

“Ye do not understand.” He lifted her chin. “’Tis not the young buck who will suffer, but Doyle himself.”

Rosalind should have protested, because ’twas still slavery. But her stepfather had killed her father and robbed her of the life she should have had all because of his lust for her mother.

There were three knocks on the door.

“’Tis the signal,” one of the men said.

Phearson drew his pistol. “Open it.”

The sailor scrambled over Hopper’s unconscious body and opened the door. Her stepfather was there with Mr. Matthews, holding a semiconscious young man.

“We have another one for Hopper.” Her stepfather held the man’s arm. “Where is Hopper?”

“He’s not the captain anymore.”

“Then who is?”

Phearson stepped into the light. “I am.”

Both her stepfather and Mr. Matthews dropped the young man and reached for their guns. The sailor punched Mr. Matthews, who fell onto his back. Phearson knocked her stepfather’s gun out of his hands, grabbed him by the shirt, then tossed at him at his new crew.

“I understand we have an order to fill.”

Mr. Doyle struggled. “Release me this instance! Do you know who I am?”

This time, ’twas Rosalind’s turn to step into the light. “Yes, you’re the man who murdered my father, tried to hang me, and ruined my life.”

“Rosalind!”

She walked over to him and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. “I hope your new master will treat you with the same kindness that you’ve treated me.”

He stared at her with pure hatred. “What are you babbling about, girl?”

“You’re being sold, Esmond.”

“How dare you call me Esmond. I am–”

She smiled. “A slave. Farewell, Esmond.”

His face paled. “No, you can’t be serious. Have mercy.”

“You’ll receive the same mercy you’ve given everyone.” She motioned to the unconscious man on the floor. “This poor soul, the peaceful vampires, everyone you thought was beneath you.”

“No!” He struggled. “Release me this instant!”

“Gag him,” Phearson ordered. “Take him to the Spanish ship. I will not have him on mine.”

“Aye, Captain.” A sailor nodded.

Rosalind took a handkerchief out of her stepfather’s pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. “Good-bye, Esmond. I will never think of you again, but I am sure you’ll think of me every day.”

He protested under the handkerchief, but Rosalind turned deaf to his muffled pleas.

Phearson clasped her hand. “Take him to the Spaniard.”

“Aye, Captain.” The two men dragged Esmond away kicking.

Rosalind slid her arms up Phearson’s chest and kissed him briefly on the lips. “What now, Captain?”

“The Sea Serpent is docked next to the Spaniard. Let’s go see my ship.”

* * *

Rosalind stood next to Phearson on the deck of the Sea Serpent. The breeze rushed over her, and instead of wearing the dreaded gowns, she was dressed like a pirate. Phearson had easily become the captain. The jewels and Hopper’s cruelty had easily convinced the crew. Phearson wasn’t sure what the future held for pirates, but it didn’t matter. He was free and would treat his men fairly to earn their loyalty. Most had stayed, but some were tired of the sea.

Phearson had asked Rosalind’s mother to join them, but she will still in love with Savannah. She’d decided to stay and run the Pirate’s House Inn, minus the abductions.

Rosalind clasped his hand. “Where to now, Captain?”

“I like how ye say that. I have something for ye.”

“You do?”

“Aye. We are headed for England. I have not seen her for a while. Come, follow me.”

He led her back to their cabin, where they’d spent endless nights exploring each other’s bodies, and her skin was chaffed from his kisses. He insisted at night that she not wear her leather mask because he wanted her naked and breathless beneath him.

“You want to make love now?”

“I always want to take ye, but that’s not why I’m taking ye here.”

He opened the door, and on the bed, there was a pink package.

“Go ahead, open it.”

She kissed him on the lips. “Phearson, thank you.”

“Ye dona even know what it is yet.”

“I know. But you just getting something for me warms my heart.”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her thoroughly, leaving her breathless.

“Ye better open that package before it’s on the floor.”

She smiled and went over to the bed. She carefully took off the lid and gasped. A white leather mask had diamonds sewn around the edges. She looked up at him, unable to speak.

He walked over to her. “’Tis a pirate mask. Each diamond represents the number of days I’ve known ye, and each day I lost a piece of my heart to ye.”

Tears flooded her eyes, and she hugged him, feeling his heart beating as hard as hers. “Phearson, ’tis beautiful. I love you.”

Before she knew it, they were in each other’s arms and spent the day discovering how to pleasure each other. But this time, Phearson let her wear the pirate’s mask.

* * *

Did you enjoy all the pirate books? Do you want to read about more vampire pirates?!!! Check out my Magic New Mexico books! There’s vampires, dragons, and witches!

Excerpt from Touch of Curiosity/Magical Shifters

A square-rigger’s wind, bearing down like a vulture, pushed the pirate ship toward the demon’s island.Tackle clanged, and rigging lines rasped as cables slid and reset to adjust the sails. Canvas bloomed overhead, and the jibs shifted as the ship slewed in the wind, flinging up long plumes of spray in her wake.

Dread rooted in Cé Jackman’s heart. The island was the last place he wanted to be, but no one ever asked his opinion.

His captain Quinton Palmer looked through his spyglass, the wind rippling his red beard and his black trousers. He stuffed the spyglass into a deep pocket in his jacket that hid a host of knives and pistols. But even without the weapons, he could rip apart a man with his bare hands. He was taller and muscular than most men, but his temper was shorter.

He faced his crew. Victory flickered in his right eye. Nothing ever flickered in his watering left eye except for his many sins, which streamed down his scarred face. Palmer’s cruelty knew no bounds, and Cé had suffered the lash more than once to satisfy Palmer’s twisted lust for punishment.

Cé could make out the swaying palm trees and a monstrous, hairy tarantula lurking on the beach. Blood dripped from its fangs. He shivered, pitying the spider’s last victims. ’Twas one of Zuto the demon’s pets.

Zuto was worse than Palmer. Ce’s best friend, Lief Black, and his woman, Isabella, were being held prisoners on the island. Leif had been Cé’s only friend on board Palmer’s floating hell hole. He had offered Cé hope for something better than being a vampire-sucking pirate for eternity. It had made the living nightmare bearable. Neither Leif nor Isabella deserved to be a feast for Zuto’s blasted spider.

The black-hearted demon wanted to kill their unborn child. Horrible even for such a soulless bastard. Cé gripped his sword tight, vowing silently to protect his friend’s babe.

For the eightieth time, he cursed himself for being a slave to the two arch-devils, but he’d no one to blame but himself. If he’d hadn’t tried to beat Palmer in a game of cards, he could have done honest work and opened up a carpenter shop in Tortuga rather than try to make a living the fast and easy way. Now, his gambling ways had earned him rank on Palmer’s miserable crew.

Palmer put down the spyglass. “Prepare to attack, men.”

His gruff voice sent his men to action. He was a cruel master, and if his command wasn’t followed immediately, he’d drag the poor soul down to the bowel of his ship where his screams would spur men to toil harder. Not one to be tortured, Cé followed his crewmates and drew on his vampire powers. Muscles shortened, and bones crunched, and hair shrunk as he changed into a bat. His teeth lengthened, and he rolled his tongue over his sharp fangs. He lunged into the sea air and soared into the blue sky. Wind whistled in his ears, and threatening rain clouds wet his furry body. Below, the rover ship grew smaller and smaller.

He saw Leif and Isabella run toward the sea, but the tarantula cut off their escape. They turned to flee into the thick jungle, but the demon stepped out from the vines and leaves like a menacing dark shadow. Their only choice was to huddle against a rocky cliff.

Taller than any man, the demon casually walked toward them, possessing no weapons and only wearing a beaded loin-cloth. Dread swelled in Cé’s heart. He could sense the demon’s carefully veiled power that was potent enough to bring down a fleet of pirate ships. The smug look on his face meant death to Leif and Isabella. Cé couldn’t take down the spider, but he might be able to buy Leif some time to escape. Heart pressing against his ribs, he stretched out his toes and opened his mouth, then attacked the demon Zuto.

Bolts of power zipped up his feet and shook Cé’s body. Waves and waves of pain hit him, but he clung to the demon, wrapping his wings around Zuto’s face. Cé gagged on the stench of his burning fur. Zuto cursed and dug his fingernails into Cé’s flesh. Agony gripped Cé and crushed his lungs. He bit Zuto’s skull, and sizzling blood raced into his fangs, burning hotter than lava. He lifted his head and shrieked.

Zuto stumbled into the jungle. Cé couldn’t endure the mind-tearing agony and loosened his grip—a deathly mistake. The demon hurled him onto the shore, spinning Cé around and around on the hard beach. Sand flew into Cé’s eyes blinding him. Grit scratched and ripped his flesh.

He lost control of being a bat—muscles twisted and bones crunched—and he transformed back into a man. Every time he took a breath, pain pulsed through him, and he couldn’t move. He groaned. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d been a mosquito trying to bring down a pissed-off tiger that could squash him with a stomp of a paw.

The ground trembled, and Cé froze. Shite, the spider!

“Cé! Look out!”

He recognized that melodic voice. ’Twas Isabella, the brave undine. She was a water nymph and a siren all molded into a slender flower.

He slowly looked over his shoulder. The tarantula fixed its eight glossy eyes onto him. Spit rolled off its fangs and splattered onto the sand, leaving puddles.

Move!

The word echoed in Cé’s mind, trying to pierce the fear that turned his muscles to stone.

Leaves stuck in his hair, the demon pointed. “Seize him!”

Cé jumped to his feet, but the spider was magically fast. Sticky strands wrapped around Cé’s legs, slicing into his flesh then slamming him onto the ground, crushing the air out of his lungs.

The beast dragged him across the beach. Terror rippled through Cé. He kicked and wiggled, but he couldn’t move. He pulled on the ropes, scraping his palms. He clawed his fingers into the sand, debris jamming up his nails. Sand pelted his face, blinding his eyes, and scratching his cheeks. The ground groaned, and a crack opened up on the beach. The spider slid inside, dragging Cé, screaming.

Icy wind rushed over him, blocking out his voice. He drew on his vampire powers, but ’twas useless. Something prevented him from changing into a bat.

Blackness filled the tunnel except for the beastie’s glowing red eyes. It pulled him closer.

Sweat slicked down Cé body, and he raised his fists. “Dona eat me, ye bloody beast!”

He bucked his body, but he could barely move.

Suddenly, the monster spun around faster and faster, flinging Cé like a fishing hook. The slick ropes unraveled, slicing into his flesh like sharp blades

Cé stretched out his fingers, trying to grab anything, but all he touched was air. “No! Help me!” His shriek echoed off the walls as he flailed his arms and legs helplessly.

The darkness dimmed, replaced with sparkling lights. Stars! But just as suddenly as they appeared, they faded to a light blue sky. He whizzed through moist clouds and dropped toward the ground like a cannonball.

Gone was the salty sea, but he inhaled the fragrant smell of lavender. He fell toward a desert with sage brush, lavender bushes, and cacti.

He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain, always the pain. He smashed onto land, bones breaking, muscles tearing. Unable to move, he lay still, waiting for the agony to subside as his vampire powers healed him.

But no such luck. Stabbing agony seized his head, then he remembered no more.

Dear Reader

I loved writing Bite of the Vampire! The Pirate House is a real restaurant in Savannah, GA! I feel in love with the House, not just because of the yummy food and drinks, but the history. There was a tunnel that went down to the river and men were drugged and dragged to ships never to be seen again! Terrible, but true!

So, of course, I had to write a vampire pirate story and Captain Fear was born!

This is the last vampire pirate book I’ll be writing–unless you tell me otherwise! Leave a review on Bite of the Vampire and let me know if you want another book.

The next one I was considering was Lark’s! He’s trapped in Salem and his sister and the crew are determined to bring him home!

If you never want to miss a book, sign up for ML Guida’s Supernatural Scroll! You can also find out what’s happening by joining my private Facebook group: ML Guida’s Supernatural Lounge!

Until next time!

ML Guida

About the Author

Award Winning Author M.L. Guida loves science fiction and the paranormal. From Star Trek to Dark Shadows to Supernatural, she fell in love with things that go bump in the night. But it was the heroes, she loved the best. No matter what happened, those characters never gave up. Now, her heroes are following their footsteps. Whether it's a shape shifter from outer space or a vampire from the past, her wounded heroes always find a way to conquer battles and win the heart of the feisty heroine. Because even in a world of darkness, true love survive.

Remember sign up for ML Guida’s Supernatural Scroll!

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Also by ML Guida

The Worlds of Magic, New Mexico

The Touch of the Dragon

Touch of Curiosity

Touch of Madness

Touch of Darkness

Blood Brotherhood

Sin of The Vampire

Shadows of the Vampire

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Mate of the Vampire

Claim of the Vampire

Destiny of the Vampire

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Walfea: A Scifi Romance

Vaughn: A Scifi Romance

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Dragons of Zalara

Madness Unleashed

Madness Unhinged

Madness Unmasked

Madness Unbalanced

Vampires on Holiday

A Vampire’s Wish

A Vampire’s Gift

A Vampire’s Vow

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Eye of the Tiger

Another Tiger Bites the Dust

Angels of Death

Betrayal

Deception

Punishment

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