Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(24)

cup but had trouble holding it, and she did not release her grip.

His hand clasped hers as he brought the cup to his parched lips.

Her skin fairly burned beneath his touch, but he continued to

drink like a person lost in the desert, seemingly unaware of any assistance.

Anne had trouble reconciling this image with the person

who’d confronted her about the price of shrimp, and was surprised by an unexpected twinge of sympathy.

After replacing the cup in the saucer, she walked to the

other side of the bed and wetted a damp cloth in the washbasin.

His black hair was plastered to his brow, and she smoothed it

away, just like her mother had done for her when she’d been

sick with fever. She wiped the cloth across his forehead, and he turned in her direction, a relieved sigh escaping his lips as he watched her through heavy lids.





8 4


Anne pretended not to notice and wet the cloth once more.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?” he asked softly.

Every impulse told her she should, but for some reason she

could not. “I should call a doctor,” Anne said, still trying to cool his fevered skin.

He shook his head. “I don’t want a doctor.”

“But you need—”

“Read to me,” he said.

Her hands paused, for his words were unexpected. “Sir?”

Leaning to the other side of the bed, the blankets pulled

taut, he picked up the book. “Read to me. I know you know

how.” It was not a request.

Anne swallowed, the blood quickening in her veins. She

remembered the familiarity with which he and Miss Patience

had addressed each other. “It would not be right for me to read

to you. You are betrothed to another.”

His jaw clenched. “Which is exactly why there is no harm

in it. You can rest assured that your virtue is yours to keep. I merely asked you to read,” he said.

Anne bit her lip, returning the cloth to the basin. He was

mocking her. He knew she’d heard his exchange with Miss

Patience. It was clear his and Miss Patience’s relationship was

closer than either of their parents suspected.

Drying her hands on her apron, Anne searched her mind

for a logical excuse not to remain. There were many.

Despite Teach’s assurances, it would not be appropriate.





8 5


There were chores to be done.

Margery would come looking for her.

If Miss Patience found out, she would be livid.

Unfortunately, Anne did not give a whit about Miss

Patience, and no matter if she read or not, there would always

be chores to be done.

What could be the harm if she stayed? He was much too

weak to get out of bed. He could be no threat in his present

state, and she had been given specific instructions to tend

to him.

If she left the door ajar as it was, there would be no cause

for censure. He was to wed another; they simply needed to

agree upon a date. There could be no harm in fulfilling his

demand.

Teach waited, as if aware of the inner battle waging within

her. In truth, Anne longed to find out more about William Dampier’s voyage round the world. She imagined it was

filled with glorious images and descriptions from destinations

unknown.

“You may sit there,” he said, pointing to the large armchair

situated parallel to him.

Her mind made up, Anne took the book from his hands,

walked back to the windows, and pulled the curtains aside. Settling herself in the armchair, she opened the pages once more.

Clearing her throat, she cast one last look at Teach. He gave

her an almost imperceptible nod, and she began.





8 6


“Before the reader proceed any further in the perusal of this work I must bespeak a little of his patience here to take along with him this short account of it. It is composed of a mixed relation of places and actions in the same order of time in which they occurred: for which end I kept a journal of every day’s observations.”

For the next two hours Dampier’s story wrapped the two of

them in a foreign world. While other travelers at the time robbed and raided, Dampier wrote vibrant and detailed notes, describing the vegetation and bringing to life the inhabitants of the places he visited. Anne was transported in a merchant ship, similar to her father’s, to the distant shores of the West Indies. She marched with the buccaneers through the jungles ahead of Spanish soldiers, raiding and pillaging small villages and large forts.

Anne felt Teach’s gaze on her face. Eventually he closed his

eyes, drifting in and out of sleep.

She was fascinated by Dampier’s report of the Miskito Indians, a most remarkable race, and she was grateful he devoted

several pages of his journal to their description. They were tall and strong, with copper-colored faces, long black hair, and stern expressions. Two Indians alone could supply an entire ship of buccaneers with food because of their fishing and hunting skills.

Anne paused, trying to picture such men. Her mother