Dark Prelude Page 3

The remains of a broken chair lay atop the wood box, one of several made into kindling by the worst fray ever to occur at the Red Feather Inn. Yet in early morning, the instigators of the ruckus sat at the same table sharing bread and cheese and drinking tankards of ale.

  They sat quietly, bathed in rubescent light from a crackling fire that splayed gawky dancing shadows across the stone walls and rough timbers of the hall. Around the room the din of conversation echoed with a tattling buzz as other early risers enjoyed strong cups of tea and welcomed a change in the weather.

  “Uncle is up to old tricks, I’ll wager.” Roman scrubbed the bottom of his tankard on the scarred table. “This summons back the island is proof of that.” He paused and drank deeply. “I don’t like turning my vessel over to Carver for a season, though he is a fine enough captain.” He glanced at his companion who sat quietly and appeared deep in thought. “What do you make of it Morgan?”

  His companion furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Before answering, he lifted his tankard and slowly drained it dry.

  Watching them, a stout barmaid propped grubby elbows on a keg while her lazy eyes sauntered from one man to the other. A pair of dandies they were. Looking so much alike they might be twins but for a certain ruthlessness in the expression of the one who spoke. And his hair a shade lighter than the other, fair as wheat in the field at harvest. Rowdy gents despite the fine clothes.

  Had emptied a keg of rum and spent the night in the inn with two girls she found for ‘em. Gentleman! Humph! Had broke up the place fightin’ over who would have the redhead. And paid a tidy sum for it too. In the end, ‘twas the fair haired one had tipped her a crown and gone off up the stairs with the redhead. And the other had closed his door with the little twit what came with her. But this mornin’ when she woke ‘em as directed, ‘twas the other one in bed with the redhead. And drinkin’ ale so early in the day. Gentlemen! Humph!

  Morgan Toller wiped the foam from his lips and smiled. “I think, my dear brother, when Wilhelm Schlange makes plans, someone should be wary.” He cocked his tawny head to one side. “What did you think of the redhead?”

  “A disappointment. All the flame was in her hair.” His eyes sparked and he had a devilish smile as he recalled how he had enticed his brother to make an exchange. “The mousy one was by far the better woman.”

  “For once we agree.” Morgan’s laugh had a raucous ring. “Now what shall we do about this trip to the colonies?” he asked as he motioned the barmaid with a sweep of his arm and followed by pointing to his empty tankard.

  The woman shrugged, wiped her hands on a soiled apron and waddled across the room like a fat duck headed for a pond. “Ye gentlemen enjoy yer evenin’? she asked with a broad grin showing the ragged gap of one missing front tooth.

  “Ahh. We did indeed, Sallie.” Roman smiled and winked, his face and inventive mask of masculine charm that set women in a dither. “But I’m sure it would have been a far better evening if I could have persuaded you to share it with me.”

  “Posh! Be off with ye sir! The thought of it!” Sallie blushed and wrung her apron in a pair of plump hands, but her grin grew even wider.

  “Can’t you leave the ladies alone for a minute, brother?” Morgan rolled his eyes upward, then wrapped his hands about the tankard and looked impatiently at Roman. “Before the Eastwind sails, tell me what you intend doing. Do we go or not?”

  Morgan could not suppress another chuckle. At thirty-two, Roman was a year his senior but hardly more a ladies’ man than himself.

  “I believe we have run dry every diversion on this side of the Atlantic and I’ve a hankering for a warmer place myself. And I must admit my curiosity is aroused when Uncle says he requires us for a matter of extreme importance.” Roman reared back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. One brow arched up. “He’s not well, from the look of him.”

  “You don’t think the old tyrant’s about to die, do you?”

  Morgan halted his drinking long enough for the concern to show on his face.

  “No. The rogue is mean as a snake. He may never die.”

  Roman let out an audible breath. Fond as he was of the old gentleman, he knew Wilhelm’s calculating shrewdness and attitude of invulnerability must eventually succumb to age. “But he is old and it seems to have occurred to him for the first time that he must attend to the future of the Schlange estate. Could be he wants us to take over more of the shipping business.”

  Roman clenched and unclenched his fist. “He has relinquished management of the estate to that blustery Eric. A move I thought never to see. Still the man has a way with crops.”

  Morgan stroked his chin, still showing a bit of red from a morning shave with a razor not quite stropped enough. “And when have you heard from Eric and dear lovely Martha? I’m sure she’s kept you bombarded with letters. One would think she has her eye on you and an ear tuned for wedding bells.”

  Morgan could not hide the start of a smile. Mention of Martha never failed to prompt a testy reply. The affections of Martha for his brother were a source of amusement for him. He knew for a fact Roman had only a brotherly affection for Martha and would never marry her, if he ever wed at all.

  “Blast you, Morgan!” He shoved his near full tankard aside. “You know full well no letters have followed us.” He glared suspiciously at his brother. “What pot have you stirred?”

  Morgan chuckled. “Have you not learned, brother, that if you do not want a pot to boil, you must not light a fire?”

  “I’ve lit nothing but I do not trust your mischief.” He scowled and came halfway out of his chair before tamping down his anger. He did not need to start another ruckus. They had done enough damage last night. Another brawl might land them in shackles. Still there was simmering anger when he continued. “Whatever you have done, I warn you, Morgan, you are the one playing with fire if you think I will not even any score of yours.”

  Morgan laughed heartily. “I am quaking in my boots, brother.”

  Roman released his clenched teeth and snarled a reply, “I advise you not to rest easy, Morgan. I’ll...” He tapered off, the sting gone out of his wrath. He had no way of knowing if Morgan had truly unleashed some roguery his on him or was merely deviling him with talk. Looking away, he drew a stern, deep breath, then looking back at Morgan with resignation, swigged of his ale.

  Morgan noted his brother’s concession, knowing that soon enough Roman would devise some sport to even the score. Theirs was a lifetime of trying to outdo one another with pranks and he could not have said who had the lead.

  “If we are sailing with Captain Langham today, we’d best notify him we’ll require our cabins.” Morgan’s teasing expression turned serious. “It’s a long ride to the harbor. I prefer to arrive in time to stow our gear on board and to find an inn near the docks where we can dine before we sail.” He rubbed his flat, hard belly and grinned. “I for one do not relish galley food for the next few months. Nor the bleakness of an ocean voyage when I am not in charge.”

  Roman threw his head back and laughed. “With ale this early and a night such as ours, I would have thought your appetite sated.”

  Chuckling again, he watched Morgan shake his head no. Meaningless liaisons like the one last night, were becoming unrequietingly boring to Roman. Unlike Morgan, he welcomed the long voyage as a respite from months filled with too much folly. Perhaps Langham would let him take some time at the wheel.

  His brows drew together in contemplative thought. A man ought to occupy his time with tasks that proved his worth. Wilhelm had preached hard work to them since boyhood. The lessons had sunk in; both had taken to hard work. Only to Wilhelm’s dismay, they showed no signs of relenting from equally hard play.

  Roman slowly stood and stretched his limbs. He was over six feet tall, as was his brother, and hard muscled from his days as a mate on Wilhelm’s ships. While he waited for Morgan to finish his drink, he strolled nonchalantly around the table to stand near the fireplace.

  “Aye. And Rom
an, a dual purpose.” Morgan looked over his shoulder at his brother and continued jovially, “I wanted to give you opportunity to find a gift for Martha. You surely would not disappoint the lass by arriving empty-handed.” His hearty laughter rocked the room and turned a number of heads their way. “Perhaps a ring.” Morgan sloshed his cup and lifted it to his mouth to empty the last of the brew.

  Roman stood back a pace, but his cheeks burned with a flush of red. For a long moment he stared at Morgan’s back and then a blacker mood took him. A wicked smile curled his lips as he drew back his arm and slapped Morgan squarely between the shoulders.

  “Let’s be off, man!”

  Morgan fell forward from the blow, choking on a swallow of ale and splashing the rest across the table. “What the devil, Roman! A word would have sufficed!” he snapped, and angrily blotted his coat front with a napkin.

  Perhaps he had gone a bit far with his mischief. But then with a sly grin replacing his scowl, he decided the result had been worth it. Roman was glowering again. Still, it might be wise if he did not turn his back on his brother again for a while.