The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) Read Free

seems oblivious to the danger she’s in. Are you certain she’s the one?”
    “I bet my life on it,” he said, his voice sounding far away.
    Keane grabbed Garrick’s forearm drawing him back.
    He whipped his attention to his brother’s hand and jerked his arm free. Since Delgado, he abhorred human touch.
    “Stick to the plan.” Keane’s insistence warned his brother was troubled. Was it because the last time Garrick had stepped on Spanish soil, he’d risked his life chasing folly? “You’ve put the Priory at risk once before. I won’t allow you to do it again. Look at her.”
    Nothing would please him more right now than to land a jab to his brother’s nose. But now wasn’t the time. He needed Keane, and he’d been sent to rescue a woman in desperate need of their help.
    Esmeralda’s lovely face. Her soft lips murmuring, “I regret nothing.” Gunfire. Sticky residue on his skin. A kick to his face, terminating the image of sightless eyes.
    Steady. Garrick fought for control.
    He grounded himself by thinking of his ship, his one true love, a significant part of his father’s fleet, an unfailing mistress. Did Keane doubt his vow to do everything he could to get the Priory back? A low growl erupted in his throat. The horrible eyesore painted on her stern, a new name — La Mota — flaunted his failure in the twilight like signal flags snapping from a fleet of ships. La Mota meant the Speck . Aye, Delgado’s devotees could pretend the Priory , pirates, and England, were a speck of dirt in their eyes, but his ship, and what was aboard her, meant more and then some to him.
    Señorita Mercedes Catalina Vasquez Claremont, the woman they were after, far out valued any prize.
    He spat in disgust. A Spaniard had taken his eye. Spaniards had killed Nelson at Trafalgar. A Spaniard now captained his ship, and God knew how many other Spaniards were after the señorita who was also a Spaniard. Well, half Spanish.
    It was time all things Spanish came to an end.
    There was no bloody way he’d allow the Priory to sail under a Spanish flag to France, though he didn’t know why… yet. The señorita knew, or would know, if her father’s plea to save her life was any indication.
    He motioned for several of his men to join him and his brothers behind bundles of tightly sealed tobacco, crates of silk, and French brandy situated near the Vasquez warehouse, across from the Priory’s berth. The bloody Spaniards had taken necessary preparations for a nighttime launch — perfectly suiting Garrick’s plan of attack. Now that their precious cargo had boarded, their liberation could be implemented without delay.
    Don Vasquez had cleverly predicted that his daughter would visit her brother before traveling to the twelfth century castle at Castro Urdiales and St. Mary of the Assumption. During Percy, Duke of Blendingham’s interrogation of Holt, the reverend had confessed under pressure that he’d ordered men to capture her then murder her there.
    Darkness descended like a veil. Garrick embraced the shadows with welcoming arms as lanterns were struck at various intervals and guards milled about the wharf. Men had been positioned on either side of the gang plank. Sailors aboard La Mota carried out their normal duties. Dock workers finished supplying the ship. Several ventured to one of Vasquez’s warehouses where the voices of boisterous men imbibing liquor, fortuitously provided by their host, could be heard.
    Laughter crescendoed. Several mischievous men raising bottles of rum shouted invitations to lurkers-on. The activity slowly cleared the docks, indicating Vasquez’s ploy to buy Garrick more time had succeeded.
    Garrick maneuvered his men into position with hand signals.
    Smuggling had advantages. With the embargo against England, the Spanish don stood to profit from the significant purse Garrick’s piracy provided.
    He smiled at no one particular in the darkness. The journey back to Talland Bay would be a welcome respite,