Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)

Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)

Nicole Castroman



For my mom, Doris,

for always telling me I should write.

And for my husband, Miguel,

for making it possible for me to do just that.



C H A P T E R 1

Anne

Bristol, England 1697

After Anne’s father died, her mother often said that sorrow was

the only sun that rose for them. Her mother had since followed

him into the darkness of death, leaving Anne to face the dawn

alone.

That morning was no different, the thick clouds overhead

were determined once again to release their pent-up frustration

on her. In the crowded marketplace and its stalls, the air smelled of sweet water on damp stone and wood, accompanied by the tang of blood.

Other maids and cooks from the large homes in the city

bartered and bought, their weary voices calling for pheasant,

venison, and veal. Anne stood in line with her pail of fruits and vegetables, hoping she wasn’t too late to get the better cuts of meat. At last she stepped up to the butcher, the many coins in her pocket reminding her of her errand’s importance.

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The butcher winked, his brown eyes almost black. “Good to see you, Anne. What’ll it be today?”

“Master Drummond wants venison tonight,” she said,

inspecting the haunches and shoulders hanging from the stall’s

center beam. The butcher’s eyes followed her with the same

consideration. With his fair hair, some might have called him

handsome, but she only saw his yellowed teeth and smelled his

rank breath. If Master Drummond hadn’t insisted she buy from

this particular butcher, she would have found a different one

long ago. He was at least twice her sixteen years, and though his apron was clean, the look on his face was not.

“Aye, his son is coming home, isn’t he?” he said, leaning

forward across the table. “Been gone a year at sea.”

Anne took a step back, pulling her shawl more firmly around

her, and finally met his gaze. “Yes, which means there’s no time to waste. I must return to the house as quickly as possible. I’ll take that one,” she said, pointing to a fleshy red hindquarter.

The name Drummond was always on someone’s lips, for

Richard Drummond was one of the wealthiest merchants in the

city. In four weeks’ time one of the largest ships ever built, the Deliverance, would set sail from Bristol. It was Master Drummond’s showpiece.

“Oi, you can’t have that one. This one’ll have to do,” the

butcher said, poking a knife into a thin portion of meat in front of him. It was old, the flesh tough and hard, the fat contracted.

Anne’s face flushed with anger, and she wished for the

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hundredth time that she could purchase elsewhere. “And why would I want that piece?” she asked sharply. “Do you know what the master would do if I served that for dinner tonight?”

The butcher grinned. “I know what I’d do,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, she gave him what she hoped was a

haughty look. “What else do you have?”

Unexpectedly, he grabbed her arm, pulling her close so that

her pail hit the table, spilling the produce onto the cobblestones beneath their feet.

“Don’t act so high and mighty with me. I’ve already told

you. I’ll give you the best cuts, but this time it’ll cost you a little extra,” he sneered. “I’ve been a patient man. If you want to please your master, you’re going to have to please me first.”

Like a dragonfly caught under glass, her heart fluttered.

She’d become accustomed to his lewd suggestions, but the grip

of his grimy fingers on her arm filled her with a new sense of

panic.

“You can please yourself,” she hissed, wrenching her arm

out of his grasp. With shaking hands she quickly picked up

the fruits and vegetables, not bothering to wipe the dirt from

their skins. The butcher laughed, an ugly sound that made her

stomach churn. She glared at him, turned on her heel, and barreled through the crowd in an attempt to put as much distance

between herself and his stall as possible.

The devil hang him. If Master Drummond wants venison for his son’s return, he should come down here and buy it himself. If 3

the butcher tries to touch me again, I’ll stick him like the pig he is.

Only after she was several rows away did Anne stop and

lean against a brick wall to catch her breath, aware of the suspicious glances thrown her way.

Despite the fact that it was a major seaport, most of the

inhabitants of Bristol were still unused to Anne’s appearance.

She was the illegitimate daughter of a prosperous English merchant and a West Indies slave, and people didn’t know how to

react to the mix of her mother’s coppery skin and her father’s

blue eyes. It was obvious Anne didn’t fully belong to either race, and others often viewed her with either distaste or distrust.

Wearily she straightened, her fingers reaching for her mother’s small, gold watch hidden in her pocket, a habit whenever

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