Page 63 of The Moonstone Pirate
His was certainly on fire.
A shout from one of the sailors aboard the ship followed immediately by the sound of a rowboat dropping into the water had Draco abruptly breaking off the kiss. “Run, Imogen.”
She stared at him with big, scared eyes. “What about my sketchbook? You wanted to hide it.”
He nodded. “Take it back with you to Westgate Hall. Do not show those sketches of me to anyone. In fact, I would prefer if you burned them all.”
The angry look she cast him warned she never would. He hoped she would at least hide them for now.
“Draco, I will never forgive you if you get hurt,” she whispered brokenly.
“I promise you, I will not get hurt. They’re only here to speak to me. I’ll see you later at Westgate Hall.” He left her side and strode down the cliff steps toward the caves. Despite assuring Imogen he was not going to get hurt, in truth, it was quite possible he was completely mistaken and would not make it out alive. McTavish and his crewmen might come at him with weapons firing.
He had the advantage of knowing the terrain, and he had his own small arsenal of weapons tucked away inside the caves. He also had Parrot by his side to warn him of danger. However, he sincerely doubted the Irishman meant to kill him.
There were only six men in the rowboat coming to shore. No other boats had been let down.
He watched the men in the rowboat pull up onto the beach beside the caves, and kept watch on them as they stepped onto the sand to see what they would do next. They merely looked around, no doubt waiting for him to show his face. None of themheld weapons in their hands. Nor did they appear to be reaching for weapons.
“Here we go,” Draco muttered, taking a deep breath as he marched down the steps onto the beach with Parrot by his side. “You’re early, McTavish,” he said, greeting their captain with a confidence he did not feel.
“I was in the area, Draco. Or should I refer to you as Lord Woodley now?” McTavish replied. “I thought I would take advantage of the high tide to check out these caves you have been touting.”
Draco shrugged. “They are more than adequate for your needs, but you should not have come here in daylight. Or shown up a week early without sending word. Did you not hear of the murder on my property?”
McTavish frowned. “I heard rumors but did not believe them. So, it is true? Someone was murdered here? What happened?”
Draco tried to measure his response, for it seemed McTavish had truly not known about the murder. “Lord Driscoll, a friend of my brother’s, was stabbed on these rocks. It happened on the night of the ball I held to welcome my neighbors.”
“A rather inauspicious beginning, Draco.”
“It did not endear me to my neighbors,” he said with a shrug. “But we’ve kept his death quiet. He wasn’t a local, so it was easy enough to suppress the news.”
He maintained a casual expression as he continued to study the Irishman and his crewmen for their reaction. But he saw no flash of recognition, not even in McTavish’s eyes.
Had his murder theories been all wrong? There was no doubt Healey had come down here that night to meet Driscoll. And Healey had been depicted in Imogen’s drawing talking to McTavish. She had drawn them together last year, so there had to be a connection. Or was it all coincidental?
“The murder should not interfere with our plans, McTavish. The prime suspect is an angry husband seeking revenge,” Draco said, preferring not to reveal he had made the connection to Healey and Burke. “The local constable is following up on that promising lead. He has a suspect in mind, but the man slipped through his fingers and fled back to London. The London magistrate has been notified and will take up the investigation. Nothing left for the local constable to do.”
“Any other suspects?”
Draco knew it was best to keep as close to the truth as possible. “Driscoll’s friends who were with him that night. I caught them running to their carriages just after the supper dance. Who flees the scene of a party unless they did something wrong? The constable could not hold them here either. He has sent their names to the London magistrate, who will take up that lead as well.”
“Any others beyond those friends?” McTavish asked.
Draco finally sensed concern in the man. He had to know by now that his cohorts Healey and Burke were at his masquerade ball, and that Healey was to meet Driscoll at some point during the night. “Aren’t these enough? But no, there’s no one else obvious. If the cuckolded husband proves to have an alibi, then the London magistrate will dig further into Driscoll’s friends. Anything you know about them? Do we need to worry what the magistrate might find out?”
“No,” McTavish replied. “They have no dealings with me.”
Draco nodded. “And Driscoll? Did he have any dealings with you?”
McTavish sneered. “I wouldn’t do business with that opium-eating bastard. Men like that are completely unreliable. They would betray their own grandmothers without a flicker of remorse.”
Which meant Driscoll had made contact with McTavish at some point, probably trying to set up an opium-smuggling enterprise, perhaps go in as partners with McTavish being the supplier and Driscoll the dealer.
Draco was not surprised McTavish had refused, first for moral reasons, because pirates were superstitious and believed the devil was in opium. Second, McTavish made a comfortable living smuggling guns along with the usual luxuries such as lace, perfume, and wine. The luxuries alone were a lucrative trade, but the guns had made him wealthy. He had little competition, since only a handful of smugglers were willing to handle the more dangerous merchandise. Authorities could be bribed to ignore bottles of wine and bits of lace, especially if they received gifts for themselves and their wives.
But they would not ignore guns. Nor would they ignore opium.
