Page 35 of The Moonstone Pirate
This girl enthralled him. He could listen to her all day.
“Look, Draco. Here is one of fishermen on the beach repairing their nets. Here is another of their wives selling fish at the busy dockside fish market, boning the catch of the day and shaving off their scales.”
“What made you choose these particular subjects?” he asked, surprising even himself by how much he wanted to learn about her and the things she loved.
“I chose them because of their interesting faces. These are mostly of the locals, but some are of shoppers or visitors who were passing through the village. I sketched them just for fun.”
“Imogen, these are amazing. Truly.” Perhaps this was why he found her so beautiful. She was not a classical beauty in a cold, Greek-statue way. She was like a sunbeam upon the water, warm and radiant. She was like a soft breeze across his meadow, fragrant and soothing.
He could look at her face for hours and never tire of it, for she was as expressive as the tides, ever vibrant and ever changing, ever fascinating.
He turned the page to the next drawing and immediately sat up. His heart began to hammer within his chest. “When did you draw this one?”
She looked at her sketchbook. “Oh, last July. The twentieth, to be precise. See, I mark the date on the corner of each page.Why are you staring at that man? Who is he? You seem to know him.”
Sean McTavish, Irish pirate and gunrunner.
Of course, he could not tell her that.
What was the man doing in Moonstone Landing, of all places, last year?
He turned the page in the hope of finding another sketch of the Irishman. Imogen did not fail him. She had drawn several, including one of him talking to two well-dressed gentlemen he recognized as two wastrel lords of his acquaintance, Lord Healey and Lord Burke. They, along with the Irishman, were standing beside a ship in the harbor. It was a fine-looking schooner, perhaps a new addition to the Irishman’s fleet of smuggling ships, and just the sort to deliver guns to English rebels.
The ship was similar to his own, theAthena, a sleek vessel fast enough to outrun a Royal Navy frigate, yet small enough that its hull would clear most rocks or deep sandbars in the smaller coves along the Cornish coastline, including his own cove attached to Woodley Lodge. Indeed, Cornwall was a pirate’s paradise because of its plentiful hidden niches and naturally formed caves where one could hide contraband goods.
But Moonstone Landing was not the sort of place that would embrace serious smugglers. Lace, wine, and perfumes were the sort of contraband goods that a town constable or army patrol might overlook. Well, the Irishman smuggled those, too. But he had made a name for himself as a gunrunner. No, this sort of activity would not be tolerated in this quiet village.
What was the name of his ship? Draco could not make it out from Imogen’s drawing.
The question rolled around in his mind again. What was the Irishman doing in Moonstone Landing last year? And what were Healey and Burke doing with him?
He carefully turned the pages, hoping to find more sketches of this particular schooner and the dates it was moored in the harbor last July or at other times. But Imogen had only the one depiction of this ship—probably because the Irishman had only spent a few hours here that day, specifically to meet those men and then sail off immediately afterward.
But those hours were enough time for Imogen to make detailed sketches. And the harbor master would have a record of every vessel sailing in or out of Moonstone Landing around that day.
Imogen was staring at him. “What else did you find of interest?”
“Would you mind if I took this sketchbook?”
“You are welcome to it. What caught your attention?”
He shrugged. “I just want to take a closer look at it, that’s all. I will return it as soon as I am finished.”
She had poured herself more lemonade, and now took a sip before responding. “Take all the time you need. I went a little mad last summer without Ella around, so I drew constantly. Probably too much.” Suddenly, she gasped as he turned to the next page. “Draco, look!”
He did not know what she was pointing to. “What is it?”
“That man’s ring! That’s the ring I saw on the wizard. No wonder it was driving me to distraction. I had drawn it before and it jogged a memory, but I couldn’t place it.” She pointed to one of the men she had drawn talking to the Irishman, a much clearer depiction of these two lords McTavish had been meeting. “Do you recognize him, Draco?”
Yes.
Lord Healey.
Hadhebeen the wizard at the masquerade ball?
Draco had to check the invitation lists again to see if Healey was on it. How on earth? He had only himself to blame forallowing others to plan that welcome party. He should never have let it get so out of hand.
How was Driscoll connected to Healey? For that matter, did Driscoll have any connection to the Irishman? Was this the true reason Driscoll had shown up at his party? Making up some fake excuse about receiving invitations in honor of Nolan, dragging his toady friends along as a cover for his true purpose, when all along he meant to meet up with Healey?
