Changing Tides Read online

  Changing Tides

  By Alex Standish

  While most pirates sail in search of riches, Captain Devon Hall, the infamous Phantom of the Caribbean, is driven by vengeance. Devon has sworn to put an end to the corrupt governor of Jamaica and break the ruthless man’s stranglehold in the Caribbean.

  When Devon is wounded and stranded on land, an unlikely rescuer comes to his aid. Brett Campbell is nothing like his uncle, the governor, and his goals are not so different from Devon’s. Brett longs for freedom, but his obligations to protect those under his uncle’s control keep him from fleeing. Throwing in with Devon might increase both their chances of success—and survival.

  When the governor’s attempts to destroy Devon escalate and place Brett in danger and in the hands of the ruthless and depraved pirate Captain Blackburn, Devon must risk everything to save the man he loves and repay his enemies.

  All Devon’s ever wanted is his ship, his freedom, friends who stand by his side through thick and thin, and someone to love. But facing dangers at sea and on land, Devon wonders if they will live to enjoy it all.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Alex Standish

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Jamaica

  1690

  DAWN WAS breaking on the horizon.

  Ignoring the pain radiating from his wound, and suppressing the rage that threatened to engulf him, Devon kept walking, uncertain where he was heading but knowing that he needed to keep going.

  He should never have left his ship, the Flying Horse, and come ashore. But after months at sea, he had been desperate to feel solid ground beneath his feet, to experience the scent of rain on dry earth, to hear the jungle echoing with animal calls and birdsong.

  His recklessness made him an easy prey for the governor’s patrols. Devon had been spotted as soon as he reached shore, and although he managed to outrun his pursuers, he had not prevailed unharmed.

  He paused for a minute to catch his breath, knowing his strength was rapidly diminishing. His limbs were becoming stiff, his breathing more and more labored, and his wound was still bleeding, even after he’d wrapped it with a crude bandage made from his shirt. He had been hit with a bullet, most likely from a pistol, and the lead was still somewhere inside him. It did not seem to be a serious wound, but it could quickly become so if not looked after promptly.

  Devon advanced slowly and let himself fall heavily to the ground. He wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and be transported into oblivion, but through an act of sheer will he kept himself from passing out. He felt feverish, his body overpowered by cold sweat and flashes of heat at the same time.

  He dragged himself under a wide leafy tree, ignoring the dizziness and nausea attacking him ruthlessly. He closed his eyes, trying in vain to stand up, his strength finally gone.

  Uttering a last helpless cry, Captain Devon Hall, Phantom of the Caribbean Sea, surrendered to the shadows hovering over him like ghosts.

  Chapter I

  DEVON BIT his lip to keep from crying out. It hurt to breathe, and his whole body felt like it was on fire. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there was danger, that the governor’s guards were close, but he didn’t have the energy to move.

  He gasped for breath, writhing in pain. Hands touched his shoulders, and Devon tried to curl in on himself, to shield his body from the blows that would cause further injury.

  The hands became insistent, though surprisingly gentle, as Devon was carefully rolled onto his back. He looked blearily up and saw a man leaning over him. Devon forced himself to meet the oddly concerned gaze of green eyes before his vision faded to black.

  IN HIS feverish delirium, Devon found himself back at his father’s forge, a place he had called home all his life—watching as it burned to the ground and listening helplessly as his father cried for deliverance that would never come.

  “Father!” he cried out in agony, but he didn’t move, couldn’t move. “Father, no!”

  Locked in his nightmare, Devon dug his fingers into the ground as he sobbed on his knees, head lowered in defeat. He couldn’t find the will or the energy to even attempt to rise. He lay there, feeling the rain pouring down on him, washing away the ashes of his life and the acrid smell of death.

  As his fingers curled around a fallen button, one that belonged to the uniform of one of the governor’s guards, Devon knew he deserved this; speaking against Governor Campbell’s ruthless reign without a thought-out plan was asking for trouble. As his father had said, actions always had consequences.

  With the last of his strength, Devon collapsed onto his back. Eyes closed against the heavy drops of rain, he gave himself over to unconsciousness.

  DEVON GROWLED angrily as he clashed blades with another guard, quick and frantic, wanting to demolish all barriers between him and his goal—the governor. He would destroy the man and avenge his father or die trying.

  Devon sneered as he bested his enemy. Instead of striking the final blow, though, he merely knocked the man unconscious. There was only one man’s blood Devon wanted on his hands. The guards were only doing their duty.

  Another guard stepped forth, and Devon thrust forward with a strong blow to initiate the fight, annoyed when his opponent deflected it with one smooth flick of a wrist. Before Devon could retaliate, the guard went for a lower cut, slicing the bottom half of Devon’s shirt.

  Devon quickly jumped back, narrowing his eyes. “You are good,” he admitted. “But not good enough.”

  The guard lifted his chin defiantly. “We will see.”

  Before their blades could engage anew, a sharp sound cut through the night air, and the highest tower of the fort burst into a shower of dust and debris.

  “Pirates!” someone shouted over the sudden chaos. “Battle stations! Battle stations! Man the cannons!”

  In the blink of an eye, Devon found himself standing alone. Thinking there would be no better time to find his prey, he rushed to the main house. He was nearly there when the crack of a whip and the rumble of wheels announced a departing carriage. Devon barely had time to avoid the galloping horses as he recognized the governor’s transport.

  “Coward,” Devon muttered, realizing the governor was running for cover. “I will get you one day. I will.”

  “Shh,” a voice said gently. “Your fever is a little higher. Elijah said fevers do that at night. You have to stay covered up, though.”

  Devon frowned; that didn’t make any sense. Gentle hands touched him, running a cool cloth over his skin, pushing his hair back off his forehead, softly stroking his cheek.

  “What…?” Devon muttered, confused.

  “Shhh, now,” the voice said soothingly. “No more talking. Rest.”

  Devon sighed and closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him.

  DEVON’S FEVERED mind took him back to yet another memory, as he regarded the chimera carved into a tavern’s sign, admiring the workmanship for a moment. The lion’s mane was full and mighty, the wings open wide in obvious aggression, its spiky tail ready to strike at any second. It was a stunning piece of work among the poor streets of Tobago.

  Shrugging, Devon stepped inside and was assailed by the overpowering stink of rum, sweat, and bile. Swallowing hard, he swiveled through the crowd, chose a table in the far corner, taking advantage of the limited lamplight, and sat with his back to the wall.

  “What will ya have, lad?” the innkeeper asked as he approached the table.

  “Rum,” De
von said, handing over a coin. “Leave the bottle.”

  Devon nodded his thanks when the innkeeper brought him a wooden tumbler and bottle of cheap rum. He prepared to get himself drunk, ignoring the noise around him that could drown out a round of cannon fire.

  He was barely feeling the buzz from the half-empty bottle when the scraping of a chair on the filthy floor alerted him to the man sitting down in front of him.

  “I have no wish for company,” Devon warned through clenched teeth.

  The man grinned, not looking ruffled by Devon’s gruffness.

  “I won’t stay long,” the man said. “I’ve been looking long and hard for you, lad.”

  Devon raised an eyebrow, hand moving inconspicuously to his pistol. “Is that so?”

  The man looked at Devon’s pistol for a moment before regarding him shrewdly, smile still firmly in place. “No need for that. I come in peace, as it were.”

  “I have no interest in anything you have to say.”

  “Might want to hear me out first,” the man replied. “Do you know who I am?”

  For the first time, Devon looked up and eyed the suntanned, wrinkled face of the man before him. There was something oddly familiar about the head of thin graying hair and the man’s brown eyes.

  “You do seem familiar,” Devon said curiously in spite of himself.

  The man glanced around cautiously. “You may have seen my wanted posters in Port Royal. I am Captain Eames.”

  Devon did recognize him—a pirate who Governor Campbell had been desperate to capture for a while now. His wanted posters were spread throughout not only Port Royal but most of the islands in the Caribbean Sea.

  Devon leaned back in his chair with a nonchalance he didn’t really feel and nodded. “All right, you’ve caught my interest. Exactly what does an infamous pirate like you want with me?”

  Eames turned serious. “I have been battling Campbell for as long as he’s been governor.”

  “Five years,” Devon said.

  “Five years,” Eames nodded. “He stole my plantation under the guise of collecting overdue taxes, he kills or makes disappear anyone who opposes him, and little by little he is sucking the life out of anything worth money in the islands. He needs to be stopped.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with me,” Devon said, sipping his rum.

  Eames rolled his eyes. “Don’t play with me, laddie. You and your father dared to speak ill of the governor. I witnessed it myself about three months back, you and your father in the town square talking to anyone willing to listen. Most people know what Campbell has been doing, how he came by his newfound wealth. But you were the first to bring those facts out into the light, and your father’s forge burned down with him inside for it. You’ve made numerous attempts at killing that treacherous little man, with little success. You’ve almost as many wanted posters around as I have.” Eames leaned back in his chair. “If you can’t kill him, hurt him some other way.”

  Devon wasn’t even pretending to be indifferent any longer. “How?”

  “By fighting his troops, creating havoc on his plans to pillage the Caribbean. We can attack any of his ships unfortunate enough to cross our paths, return its spoils to the poor or those whom Governor Campbell saw fit to persecute. We can make a stand against that greedy miscreant. What do you say, lad?” Eames said eagerly. “I need a first mate, and with us joining forces, Campbell will not stand a chance.”

  For the first time since his father died, Devon felt hopeful. He shook hands with Eames. “I accept.”

  “Excellent,” Eames said. “This deserves a celebration. Innkeeper, bring us a bottle of your best whisky.”

  When the libation arrived, Devon filled both tumblers, and they toasted to their partnership. Devon took a deep swallow, frowning when it tasted cool and fresh instead of the smoky, earthy bite he was used to.

  “Take some water, small sips,” a voice said, the same one that spoke constantly in the back of his mind. “You are faring much better, my friend. Rest now.”

  Devon wanted to answer, but he couldn’t find the will. Gradually his awareness of the voice faded, and he slipped back into sleep.

  DEVON REGAINED consciousness, shivering and clutching at the sweat-soaked sheets tucked around him. His limbs felt heavy, and drowsiness attempted to overpower him, though he fought against it.

  For a second, Devon thought he was still in the jungle, doomed to be captured. However, as he focused on his surroundings, he found he was no longer in the field he had crossed during the night. Instead he was in a spacious room, lying on a comfortable, soft bed. He felt infinitely better and realized someone had tended to his wound. Sitting up slowly, he looked around but did not see anyone. He strained his ears and could not hear anything; it was eerily quiet outside.

  He turned his attention to the bedroom and began to examine its contents in detail. It was a wide room, elegantly decorated and lit by two large windows through which Devon could see immense palm trees. He spotted a piano at one end of the room, on which were scattered some pages of music. A mahogany table took up the middle of the room.

  “Where am I?” he said softly. “And who tended to my wound?”

  Suddenly the handle of the door rattled and turned, and a man entered, walking slowly, carrying several pieces of white cloth and a small basin. He seemed younger than Devon, shorter but sturdily built. He had chestnut hair and pale green eyes that lit up as they settled on him.

  The man’s clothes were simple but clearly of good quality. He wore what looked like a white linen shirt with a double ruffle in the front, tucked into a pair of tight black trousers, and knee-high riding boots.

  “You’re finally awake,” the man exclaimed with a smile. “I was afraid we might lose you to the fever. You have been senseless for three days.”

  “Three days!” Devon said, surprised, his mind conjuring images of the green-eyed man bathing his face and crooning softly to him as he writhed feverishly. “How did I get here?”

  “I was riding through the plantation when I found you unconscious. Your injuries did not seem fatal, but I worried about the blood loss,” the man said. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Better, thank you,” Devon said. “Not in much pain.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. May I be so bold as to query, what happened to you, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Devon lied smoothly. “Several men attacked me on the road. I have no idea who they were, but they took all my money and possessions and shot me.”

  The man hesitated, and for a moment, Devon was certain he was going to be called a liar to his face. Finally the man nodded. “Probably bandits. We have been having many problems with such miscreants. No matter. All you should care about at the present is getting better. You will have to remain here for at least a fortnight. You have lost a lot of blood.”

  “Where am I? And who are you?”

  “You are on the governor’s plantation. I’m his nephew, Brett Campbell.”

  “The governor?” Devon said, his expression darkening. He quickly recovered himself. “I am—”

  “Please, say no more,” Brett said quickly, hand raised slightly to prevent Devon from speaking.

  “Why not?” Devon asked, curious as to the reason Brett refused to hear his name.

  Again Brett seemed to hesitate. “You are still weak, tired. Later, when there is time and you are more rested, we can speak further. You will not be bothered here. Uncle Rupert is staying in Port Royal for the next three weeks due to business affairs. By the time he returns, you should be long gone.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m a stranger. For all you know, I could be one of those bandits you mentioned.”

  Brett chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m a good judge of character, sir. I don’t believe that. Now, let me check your injury and change the bandages.”

  “You were the one here with me all this time, weren’t you? I remember someone bathing me, cleaning the wound.”

  “Y
es, it was me,” Brett said, his attention already on Devon’s wounded leg.

  Devon held his breath in anticipation of the pain that was sure to follow. However, Brett unwrapped the bandage with the utmost care, using a moist cloth to clean the wound. Once Brett was done, he abandoned the bloody cloth inside the basin and wrapped a clean bandage around the injured area.

  “Thank you. That was not as painful as I was expecting it to be,” Devon said wryly.

  Brett’s lips twitched. “Thank you, I think. You are overly warm, and the sheets need changing,” he said with a slight frown. “I will see to it myself. Perhaps some tea and broth as well?”

  Devon’s stomach clenched at the thought of food. “Yes, please.”

  Brett nodded. “I will return soon with a light meal.”

  “Mr. Campbell, wait,” Devon called out before Brett could leave.

  “Brett, please.”

  Devon nodded. “Brett. I just…. Thank you… for, well, for everything.”

  Brett smiled. “You are most welcome. I will see you later.”

  Devon smiled weakly back, wanting to say something further, but suddenly talking took too much effort, his body warning him that he was still healing. Unable to stay awake, his eyelids fluttered closed.

  MORNING DAWNED clear and bright. Devon was sitting back in his bed, sipping hot, spicy tea while Brett browsed through some documents, something that was fast becoming a ritual in the three days since Devon had regained consciousness.

  “I saw your face at the mention of the governor,” Brett said, breaking the silence.

  Devon froze, pondering what to say. By unspoken agreement, they hadn’t touched the subject of his identity or how he ended up at the governor’s plantation, choosing instead to talk about trivialities whenever they were together.

  “What?” Devon asked, trying to forestall for time.