The Black Morass (Pirates of the Coast Book 1) by Barbara Devlin Page B

the gems in the Crawford estate, which I inherited, by law, from my Aunt Eileen.  While I have no plans to evict you from the plantation, I will brook no interference in my affairs and, in future, will thank you not to insert yourself into my business.”
    “How dare you, grasping, greedy schemer.”  Lady Prudence leveled a malevolent stare.  “You will not succeed.  You will not rob my babe of its rightful fortune.”
    “Get out.”  Madalene pointed for emphasis.  “And I warn you not to impinge on my person, again, else you will regret it.”
    “Do not worry.”  The termagant smiled, and Madalene’s skin crawled.  “I will have no need to bother you.”
    With that, Lady Prudence slammed shut the door, and Madalene shuddered.  Crawling atop the mattress, she hugged a pillow, closed her eyes, and summoned a vision of Jean Marc.  Then she unleashed her misery, and grief rushed forth as a tidal wave.

THE BLACK MORASS

    CHAPTER NINE
    The sun sank below the yardarm on the third full day without Maddie, and Jean Marc feared he might run amok.  After canvassing Port Royal for any mention of his woman, he ventured to the local whorehouse for a drink and a fuck with a three-penny upright.  At least, that was his plan.
    In the crowded brothel, some of the worst of humanity mingled, smoked, and indulged their baser appetites, while a musician screeched and scratched on a violin.  The dank stench of sweat mixed with stale ale, and he second-guessed his tack, until he spied a familiar face in the back corner.
    “Barry, what are you doing here?”  Jean Marc pulled up a chair, sat, and flagged a bar wench for a glass of rum.  “I did not think you traveled these parts, for fear of capture.”
    “Jean Marc, it is good to see you, old friend.”  The pirate, known as the Iron Corsair on the seas, scratched his chin and gnawed on a roasted turkey leg.  “And you are the last person I expected to walk through that door.”
    “My fortunes changed, and I anchored a-weather to avoid detection.”  He thought of Madalene and wondered if she was all right.  Was she happy?  Had she forgot him, already?  No.  She loved him, she declared as much on the decks of the Morass for all to hear.  And in a moment of infinite stupidity, he let her go.
    “Well, hello, Jean Marc.”  A blonde with large breasts rubbed against him.  “Can I interest you in a blow, or are you in the mood for your usual fare?”
    The mere suggestion inspired naught but revulsion, as he belonged to Madalene, and he grimaced.  “No.”
    Indeed, Maddie was everywhere and nowhere, at once.  As some sort of twisted torment, she enveloped him in her presence, claiming his lips, filling his arms, warming his bed in his dreams, and yet when he woke her absence manifested a great chasm threatening to consume him.
    “Now that is a first.”  Slapping his thigh, the Iron Corsair tossed a few coins on the table, spread his legs, and unhooked his breeches.  “On your knees, and open your mouth, doxy.  I will take what he refuses.”  With a groan, he bared his teeth, as the wench’s head bobbed.  “So what brings you to Port Royal?  Let me guess, a woman?”
    “How did you know?”  Jean Marc stared into his glass and sighed.  “What have you heard?”
    “Because you decline the pleasure of a stranger, and I have heard nothing.”  Barry downed the last of his ale and exhaled audibly.  “That is good.”  Then he shook his head.  “So what is she to you?”
    “In truth, nothing.”  Jean Marc revisited her dream and envisioned himself garbed as a gentleman and walking, arm in arm, with Maddie on the streets of Boston.  “But she could be everything.”
    “Then why is she not with you?”  The Iron Corsair pounded a clenched fist and grunted.  “What did you do?”
    “It is a long story, and one I am in no mood to share.”  Another whore propositioned Jean Marc, and he rejected her advance with a brisk flick of his