CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rafe felt seized with leaden fright as Ransom’s ship drew alongside El Verdad’s portside. He could see its name―H.M.S. Precipice―emblazened in bright gold lettering against its polished hull, and that is exactly what he felt as though he stood poised against―a precipice overlooking an abrupt and lengthy plummet.
He and Kitty were alone on the ship, with the flags lowered in surrender and La Venganza gone, nearly to the horizon. Kitty had said no more to him after her furious rebuke, and he had not tried to coax anything further from her.
It is better this way, he thought as he watched Ransom and his crew come aboard, crossing broad measures of planks to bridge the main decks to one another. It is better that she hates me. It will only spare her pain later.
She loved him. Her words echoed in his mind, cleaving into his heart. You cannot see how much I love you?
She loved him, and he loved her, too, with a helpless, poignant, wrenching despair that left him breathless, aching, bewildered and forlorn. He had no hope of making her understand. There was nothing for them, not without his hands. If he could depend at least upon his limbs, then he might have fled with Claudio and the others; he might have taken Kitty with them aboard La Venganza and built a life together with her someplace new and far away, where Ransom would never find them. Rafe could have made it possible; a physician could find work anywhere. But without his hands…
Without my hands, I am nothing, he thought. I have nothing to give her, no means to build a life, not for me, and certainly not for her. Cristobal would have fared just as well to shoot me in the head. At least it would have been quicker that way―by far more merciful.
Even though Rafe’s ships had surrendered, the English sailors were accompanied by armed marines, soldiers in bright red justicoats and tricornes, wielding rifles in their hands. Ransom strode boldly across the deck, striking such a magnificent figure that Rafe stumbled backward, shied and breathless with awe.
Ransom’s uniform was immaculate and the gold details of his greatcoat flashed in the midday sun. His tricorne sat low on his long brow, draping his sharply etched face in shadows, cleaving his angular features with light and darkness. He was flanked by his officers on either side, a contingent of armed marines immediately behind them. His stride was long and swift and unflinchingly self-assured. He marched with one hand closed in a tight fist, and the other curled about the grip of a brass-adorned pistol.
“Daddy!” Kitty cried, understandably eager to hear his footsteps, to recognize him. Her mouth unfurled in a radiant grin, her cheeks flushed with excited color. She broke away from Rafe’s side, and he made no move to prevent or restrain her. She was gone to him now; it was finally over, and he had lost her.
It is better this way, he told himself again.
“Daddy!” Kitty ventured forward, her hands outstretched, and Rafe watched John Ransom’s hardened exterior soften, his brows lifting, the stern line of his mouth spreading in a smile of abject, joyous relief.
“Kitten!” he gasped as he rushed toward her, catching her in his arms and crushing her against him. His tricorne tumbled from his head as he lifted her off her feet in a fierce embrace, and Rafe saw from whom she had inherited her golden-red curls.
Kitty clung to him, and Rafe’s heart ached to hear her weeping. John set her feet on the ground again, but did not release her from his embrace. He clutched at her, his broad shoulders shuddering. “My girl,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “My kitten.”
John looked over Kitty’s shoulder, his gaze finding Rafe, impaling him. Rafe could not move, pinned by that stern, unflinching gaze, and when John broke away from Kitty, marching toward him, his brows furrowed again, his smile faded in full, Rafe hung his head, ashamed.
“Who is the captain here?” John asked, swinging the pistol up in his hand as he approached. He shoved the barrel against Rafe’s temple, his thumb drawing the doghead back with an audible click. “I said who is the captain of this ship?” he seethed.
“Daddy, no!” Kitty pleaded, turning and following her father, reaching for him. “Daddy, please, wait―!”
“I am, sir,” Rafe said, his shoulders hunched, his entire body rigid as he awaited the booming report of the pistol, the momentary pain before his brains scattered against the deck planks.
“Where is your crew?” Ransom asked. “There was a second ship with you. Where have they gone?”
“South, sir,” Rafe replied. “With every man aboard, sir, save me. You do not need them. It is me you want―me who should be made to answer.”
“Daddy, please!” Kitty begged, groping at John’s arm now. “Please do not hurt him! He saved me, Daddy! He has kept me safe all of this while!”
One glance told Rafe that her pleas had no discernable effect on John Ransom. He glared at the younger man, his brows furrowed so deeply, the blue measures of his eyes were nearly hidden beneath them. The pistol remained against Rafe’s brow, shoved firmly into his flesh.
“What is your name, boy?” John asked him.
“Rafe Serrano Beltran, sir.”
John reached into his coat pocket without lowering or loosening his aim. He pulled out a scrap of parchment and flapped it in front of Rafe’s face. It was the ransom note Cristobal had left pinned with a dagger to Kitty’s bed at the Isle of Wight, telling Ransom to sail for Lisbon if he hoped for her safe return.
“You left this for me?” John asked. “Why?”
“Yes, sir,” Rafe said. He looked up, meeting John’s gaze. “My father is Evarado Serrano Pelayo.” At this mention, John’s eyes grew wide in start. “Please, sir. I can explain. Everything and in full.”
John looked dubious, and still somewhat surprised. “Daddy, listen to him,” Kitty said, hooking her fingers against his sleeve and at last, drawing his gaze. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes flooding with tears. “Please.”
John’s expression softened again at her plea. The pistol slipped away from Rafe’s head. “Alright,” he said quietly, but his gaze was still sharp and stern toward the younger man. “I am listening.”