Cad's Choice, page 1
Cad’s Choice
Copyright 2021 by Cheryl Holt
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Cover Design Angela Waters
Paperback and Digital format: Dayna Linton • Day Agency • www.dayagency.com
ISBN: 978-1-63732-816-3 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-63732-817-0 (Digital Book)
Library of Congress Pending
First Edition: 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the USA
Cover
Cad's Pick
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Praise
Cheryl Holt Booklist
“Are you in or out, Captain? Will you bet?”
Sheridan Stone sighed with resignation, feigning little interest in his cards, as if he held a losing hand. He threw a few coins in the center of the table and said, “I think you’re bluffing, so I’m in.”
He was an excellent gambler, and he had a heightened ability to track the cards, so when he gambled for real stakes, he usually won. It was hard to best him at any endeavor, especially a wager, but when he was sitting in a seedy tavern in a port town, he pretended he wasn’t versed on the rules.
Mainly, he was present to listen, gossip, and hear what he wasn’t meant to discover. He told others he was simply waiting for supplies to be purchased, for his ship to be loaded.
His crew affected the same attitude. They gambled, made friends, and visited the whores. When Sheridan hoisted his sails, and they departed, he’d have accumulated many interesting details that would be sent to England in coded dispatches.
He wasn’t a spy precisely. He was a gatherer of information that could be used by government officials to evaluate the intentions of the kingdom’s enemies. With war spreading in Europe, every tidbit was important.
He obtained news about ships and shipments, about freight and secret payloads—such as armaments—that shouldn’t be delivered, and he ensured they didn’t arrive. It was dangerous, exciting work for which he was thoroughly suited.
He’d spent years in the British navy, trying to obey orders, but he’d been too arrogant to meekly comply with commands, so he’d constantly been in trouble for insubordination. He was a skilled mariner and brawler though, and his superiors had decided he could be put to other tasks, carrying out mischief the government denied.
He was much better on his own, pursuing subterfuge. His activities protected his prior navy compatriots, as well as British merchants, and his reckless daring-do brought him enormous satisfaction. But it was draining, and he was tired.
The previous summer, he’d been wounded, boarding a pirate vessel that had been smuggling guns, and he wasn’t fully healed. He’d been slashed in the leg, so he limped, and his balance wasn’t steady. He also grew fatigued more easily, and he wondered if he shouldn’t step aside for younger men, but he was only twenty-eight. He refused to view himself as old.
It was a chilly October night, a Saturday, and the tavern was packed with an array of sailors, villains, hangers-on, and petty criminals. He was in France, at the harbor in Boulogne, so the chief language being spoken was French. He understood it sufficiently to converse, but there were a dozen others drifting by: Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, even some Arabic.
The evidence of far-flung locales always made him happy.
He loved to travel, to explore exotic places and rub elbows with intriguing characters. His current career offered that to him, and he had to figure out a way to continue. He couldn’t let a paltry injury force him to walk in a different direction.
“What’s it to be, Captain?”
At hearing the question, he realized how avidly he’d been woolgathering. He either had to bet again or fold. There was a pile of money on the table, but he never drew attention to himself by winning a large pot.
He tossed down his cards. “I thought you were bluffing, but you weren’t. I’m out.”
The other players laughed, and the winner scooped up the coins. No one pondered his comment, except for a young man standing across from him. His brows rose, as if he knew Sheridan was lying. Had the petite oaf been peeking over Sheridan’s shoulder without his noticing?
The prospect was unnerving. His position depended on stealth and blending in, so he never liked anyone watching him too closely. He particularly didn’t like anyone peering over his shoulder, and he was irked that he hadn’t sensed the prying snoop. In such a risky establishment, where a fight could break out with scant provocation, it was never wise to be lazy or careless.
The dolt saw Sheridan studying him, and he lurched away and was swallowed up by the crowd. Good thing. Sheridan always had schemes percolating, so he couldn’t have a busybody interfering. Yet if a person was stupid enough to butt his nose into Sheridan’s business, he was adept at fabrication and could instantly invent any believable story.
The dealer shuffled the deck to start another game, so Sheridan pushed back his chair and slid away. He went to the bar and called for a shot of whiskey, downing it in a quick swallow, then he set down the glass and turned to leave.
For just a second, he noted the same short sneak scrutinizing him again—much too curiously for Sheridan’s liking. The fellow was twenty or so, and he had such pretty features that he could have been a girl. His hair was inky black and curly, barely restrained by a ribbon. He had big green eyes, rosy cheeks complete with dimples, and lips that—on a female—would simply have been made for kissing.
It was perilous for such a fetching boy to strut about in the dissolute spot. There were plenty of corrupt lechers who would be delighted to abscond with him, and he looked very naïve. Would he detect the hazards that were lurking?
“Not my problem,” Sheridan muttered to himself.
There were too many gullible men in the world. They were eager to journey to foreign areas, but as he’d learned the hard way, calamity sprang up when you least expected it. He had caused a ton of calamity for the unwary. If the little ass got himself into a jam, it wouldn’t be a surprise.
What game was the annoying prick playing? He was probably a pickpocket, and Sheridan patted his coat to ensure his purse was hidden, then he headed for the door. He was finished for the night and would stroll around the harbor to his rented lodging. He’d commissioned a minor repair on his ship, and it gave him an excuse to tarry for two weeks. He would spend the interval eavesdropping on sailors.
He was very rich; his entire family was wealthy, so when he came ashore, he could afford opulent quarters. He had a taste for the finer things in life, and since he was almost always at sea and living in rough conditions, when he pulled into port, he indulged his whims.
His bodyguard and valet, George Barnes, was waiting for him outside. They didn’t speak or acknowledge one another, and George would follow at a slow pace. He was a tidy, fastidious man who never stood out, who dawdled in the shadows. He had many odd talents that shouldn’t have coalesced, namely that he handled Sheridan’s clothes and guarded Sheridan’s back.
At age forty, he was shorter than Sheridan’s height of six feet, and he was thin and wiry, not possessed of Sheridan’s bulk or brawn, so he didn’t appear imposing, and people always underestimated him. His hair was grey, his eyes too, so when a witness was asked to describe him, they never could.
He didn’t drink, gamble, or chase loose women, so he had none of Sheridan’s vices, but he was tough and strong, and he could be incredibly violent when violence was required.
The street was busy, packed with carriages, horses, carts, and pedestrians. He was meandering through the traffic, when suddenly, the petite oaf from the tavern popped up next to him. Again, the fiend had sidled too near without his noticing, and he stiffened with alarm.
“Pardon me, sir,” the boy said, “but are you English?” Sheridan didn’t reply, and the boy thought he didn’t understand. He tried French. “Pardonez moi, monsieur . . .”
“Yes, I’m English.” Sheridan responded more curtly than was necessary. “What is it you need?”
“You’re a ship’s captain, aren’t you?”
“Why would you know that about me?”
“You seem quite a bit above an ordinary sailor.”
Sheridan snorted. “You’re keen at assessing details.”
“I was wondering . . .”
The boy halted, so Sheridan halted too, although he couldn’t have explained why. He was fatigued, his leg wound aching, so he was too grouchy to be polite. He glared down, braced for any query. It was a port town. Any sort of dubious, illegal, or immoral request might be tendered.
Up close, the fellow was even prettier: smooth skin, long lashes, a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was dressed appropriately, in a blue coat, short pants, and buckled shoes, but he was too shapely to be a male. Sheridan was a connoisseur of women, and he recognized a bosom when he saw one.
Was he staring at . . . at . . . a girl? If he was, he wouldn’t be surprised. During his travels, he’d stumbled on every peculiar sight. If she’d been attired like a female, there was no predicting what trouble she’d encounter. As a boy, she’d be safer. Not a lot safer, but a tad.
“Wondering what?” he asked.
“Might you be headed to England?”
He was, but he lied. “No.”
“Oh. Well . . . ah . . . are you acquainted with any captains who might be sailing in that direction?”
“No.”
He—or maybe she?—nibbled on a bottom lip, and the coy gesture left Sheridan certain he was a she. The discovery tugged at his conscience. She probably needed assistance, but he wasn’t about to insert himself in a stranger’s dilemma.
In his world of criminals and villains, there was rarely a benefit to compassionate conduct.
Without warning, a small boy dashed out of the crowd and bumped into him, as if by accident. Sly, quick fingers reached for his purse, but it was tucked away where it couldn’t be found. The child was there and gone in a flash, and Sheridan might have assumed it was a random attempt, but it dawned on him that she had to be in league with the furtive pickpocket.
It had been a typical assault, one that usually succeeded. She’d distracted him, then her partner had struck. If he hadn’t been so wary, his money would have been stolen, which was exasperating. If he didn’t start paying better attention to his surroundings, who could guess what might happen?
He grabbed the miscreant and pushed her against the wall of a nearby building, a knife at her throat. Behind him, George raced by, having observed the incident and being intent on catching the child.
Sheridan kept his focus where it belonged. He leaned in, his large, masculine body crushed to hers, and his curiosity about her gender was assuaged. She was definitely a female. Two very curvaceous breasts adorned her chest, and he had a thigh between her legs. There was no cock dangling there.
“Call to your accomplice,” he said. “Tell him to come back. At once. He and I have to have a chat.”
“I have no idea who you mean.”
“Liar. Call to him or I’ll summon the law.”
She scoffed. “There’s no law in this place, so it’s an idle threat.”
“If you’ve deduced that there’s no law, it’s because you investigated the matter. It’s easier for you to commit your crimes when you’ve figured out in advance that no constable will stop you.”
She inhaled a deep breath and shouted, “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped!”
It was a port town, so people never interfered in a squabble. It was a swift way to get killed. Nary a person glanced over at them.
“Nice try.” He clapped a palm over her mouth to silence her. “No one cares that you’re being kidnapped, so no one will rush to your aid.”
She gazed up at him, appearing impish and even a tad dangerous, then she went limp, her weight dropping in an instant. He lost his grip on her, and she collapsed to the ground and skittered away.
He captured her rapidly, seizing her by her coat and lifting her to her feet. She kicked at his shins, but he simply wrapped an arm around her waist and balanced her on his hip. She was a tiny sprite, so it took no effort to restrain her.
George was approaching, but he was empty-handed. The town was a maze of alleys and shadows, and George’s prey had vanished like a rat down a sewer.
Sheridan marched off, George by his side, as his prisoner spat curses he couldn’t believe a female would have learned. He ignored her and continued on to his rented lodging. It was a cozy apartment, with windows that looked out over the harbor. When he stood in the front parlor, he could stare out at his ship, and the sight brought him comfort.
George unlocked the door, and Sheridan hauled her up the stairs to his rooms on the second floor. He tossed her onto a chair and said, “Stay there and don’t move.”
Of course she didn’t listen. She leapt up to run out, but George was behind her. He slapped his palms on her shoulders and pinned her to her seat.
“What is your name?” Sheridan demanded.
She hemmed and hawed, then said, “Miss Sophia Cantwell. What’s yours?”
He didn’t bother answering. “You’re British?”
“Yes.”
“I presume there is a good reason you are dressed like a man and prowling in a foreign tavern?”
“Yes, there is.”
He waited for her to expound, but she was mulishly defiant, and he asked, “And that reason is . . . ?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m making it my business. Who was your little friend?”
“Are you referring to the boy who jostled you?”
“Yes. Who was he? If you were hoping to rob an unsuspecting drunkard, you should have picked a better mark.”
“I wasn’t trying to rob you. I asked you for help.” She nervously studied his parlor. “What will you do to me?”
“I haven’t decided. Whip your back bloody? Cut off your hand to brand you as a thief? Hang you on the wharf as a warning to others?”
“You wouldn’t punish me like that,” she huffed.
“Why are you so sure?”
“Your clothes and accent indicate you’re a gentleman.”
“If that’s what you imagine, then you have completely misconstrued the sort of tyrant I can be.”
She slid to her knees, her hands folded as if in prayer. She was a fascinating, infuriating pest, and he’d never met a female quite like her.
“I throw myself on your mercy,” she said, “and I beg your kind assistance.”
“I decline to provide it.”
Her jaw dropped. “You can’t . . . can’t . . . decline!”
“I can and I have.”
“You’re a gentleman. I just know you are.”
“You’re wrong. Now state your situation and be quick about it.”
Suddenly, the door from the stairs was flung open, and her pickpocketing ally burst in. He was ten or so, a street urchin with snarled blond hair and cunning blue eyes. He was agile and lithe, and so slender a stiff wind could blow him over, but he was holding a very large knife.
“You will pardon me,” he said, his French accent very thick, “but you will be letting her go, and she will be leaving with me.”
“For pity’s sake,” Sheridan grumbled.
George was fast as a snake. He stepped over, clouted the boy on the side of the head, and plucked the knife away. The boy lunged at George, and he was a fierce fighter, but George swiftly subdued him.
He plopped the child onto the chair next to Miss Cantwell, and he bent down and muttered in his ear, “Behave yourself, you little knacker, or I’ll whack you even harder. What will happen to your Miss Cantwell then?”
