Benjamin repaired one of the few chairs that could be salvaged. Most of the tables were still intact, but Alastair would have to purchase new benches and stools, as well as replace the railing leading upstairs.
It was a miracle no one had been killed. Remembering the look on that man’s face as he’d knelt over Reva, Anne knew it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Coyle strode into the room, interrupting Anne’s thoughts. He and Alastair had gone to the docks to commission a carpenter to help with repairs. “Alastair wants you to start carrying these,” he said to Anne and Cara as he placed two pistols on the bar.
Wiping her palm on her skirts, Anne eyed the weapons, a cold fist clenching her heart. She’d never held a weapon before, let alone fired one. Once, when she’d accompanied her father to the docks, someone had fired a pistol. To her young mind, it had resembled the roar of a cannon. People had scattered, and although Anne had never seen exactly what happened, she still remembered the fear on people’s faces.
Cara laughed outright. “You’re daft if you think I’m going to carry one of those.”
Her brother scowled. “If you plan on staying here, you’re going to do just that, Cara. And so will you, Anne.”
An image of Reva flashed in Anne’s head. The girl had worn two pistols, although neither of them had helped her in the end. Curious, Anne picked up the weapon. It was surprisingly compact and almost fit in the palm of her hand. It seemed strange that something so small could wield such power.
Seeing her interest, Coyle moved forward. “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded. These are flintlock coat pistols. You can carry them with your pistolman’s pouch, which will hold your ammunition.” Coyle took the weapon from her and attached it to the leather pouch hanging across his chest. Lifting it over his head, he draped it across Anne’s shoulder, where it fit snugly, resting on her hip.
It felt foreign and heavy. “I can’t wear this,” she protested.
“It’s better for people to see you’re armed, so no one will bother you. Besides, that’s a dainty pistol.”
It might have been smaller than the two Coyle carried with him, but it was still quite solid. “I wouldn’t know how to use it,” Anne said.
“I’ll teach you,” Coyle said without hesitation.
Seeing Anne’s deliberation, Cara swept by her and stalked toward the kitchen. “I’m going to speak with Uncle Alastair. You can’t make us do this if we don’t want to.”
With a muttered curse, Coyle turned on his heel and followed his sister. “It’s for your own good, Cara.” His voice faded as they went to find Alastair.
Anne removed the pouch and pistol and placed them on the bar. Looking at Benjamin, she saw him studying her. He could not have been more than three years her senior, but his quiet dignity made him seem older.
He seemed to sense her indecision. “Beth carries one with her whenever she leaves the Fox.”
Biting her lip, Anne reached for the watch in her pocket, her gaze returning to the two pistols. They seemed so benign, yet she knew they could inflict considerable damage, even death. “I’d be more afraid of injuring myself than I would of protecting myself.”
“You might be surprised what you can do in the face of fear.”
Before Anne had a chance to respond, the front door of the tavern opened unexpectedly and in walked two men. She recognized the shortest one. It took her a moment to place him because he wore a powdered wig and a brocaded long coat, but he was the same one who’d tried to kill Reva the night before. He was clearly a man of importance, at least in his own eyes, for he gave Anne and Benjamin a disparaging look when he saw them.
So surprised by their appearance, Anne was unprepared when the taller man kicked over the chair Benjamin had just repaired. She curled her hands into fists as it skidded across the room. Benjamin stayed where he was, his expression cold and unflinching.
“Get back to the kitchen where you belong,” the small man sneered at her before turning to Benjamin. “And you, get back to your chores, boy. Don’t you have some manure to shovel somewhere? What’s Alastair thinking—?”
“I’m thinking you have no business coming into my establishment and telling me or my friends what we can and cannot do,” Alastair said, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “Especially after what happened last night. Did you come to admire your handiwork, Pelham?”
“Someone’s got to try to keep the peace.”
“Things were plenty peaceful around here until you showed up.”
“What would you say if I told you the governor sent me?” Pelham asked.
“I’d say you’re lying. Webb’s thugs only come in and wreck the place. You tried to kill one of my patrons last night.”
Pelham looked unrepentant. “I heard there were pirates in the vicinity and wanted to make sure you and your customers were safe. After all, that’s why I was sent here. Webb’s not doing a good enough job.”
“There are always pirates in the vicinity, Pelham. Save your stories for someone who’ll believe them. I know you’re after one particular pirate. She’s leading you on quite a merry chase.”
Anne was even more pleased that she’d helped Reva escape, as color rose in the smaller man’s face and fury gleamed in his eyes. “It would be wise to remember who you’re dealing with, Alastair. I’m a peer of the realm.”
“You might have a title, but titles mean significantly less here in the islands. Your backers are far, far away, so don’t you dare come here and threaten me, Lord Pelham.”
Pelham practically shook, his expression threatening retribution for Alastair’s insolence. “It wouldn’t be wise to underestimate me or the power of my title. Webb’s told us some of the things you’ve done and we aren’t pleased with your decisions.”
“Some of the things I’ve done? What about some of the things Webb has done?” Alastair demanded.
“Your refusal to join us is unacceptable. We need your ships if we want to compete against other merchants. They’re willing to do whatever it takes.”
“I’m not. I told Webb the same thing I told Trott. I will not engage in the bartering of human lives. My ships will transport any number of raw materials. Sugar, coffee, tobacco. I will gladly fuel Britain’s addictions, but I will never transport slaves.”
This was news to Anne. She’d believed Alastair was a simple tavern owner, but it appeared he was a merchant as well, and a successful one at that.
“It’s only a matter of time before the Royal African Company loses its control on the slave trade. We need to be prepared to act when that happens. The rest of our shareholders will meet in Jamaica within eight weeks. Before then, I suggest you change your position.” The cold detachment in Pelham’s voice caused a shiver to run down Anne’s spine.
“It’s a wasted trip, for I have no intention of changing my mind,” Alastair snapped.