Chapter 11

S everal miles south, off the shore of Hampshire, a ship bobbed with the rolling waves in the water. The anchor rested on the bottom of the ocean next to a little island no one paid attention to. Rich green plants and tall willowy trees filled the wild jungle. No inhabitants, as far as anyone knew. Until his ship struck rock and splintered, sending them all to a watery grave—so they had thought . What a relief to find a small patch of land, overgrown with vines and sharp thistles, a jungle, so to speak.

Rainforests were often destroyed by flooding. Small islands in the ocean rarely survived the sea, and were often blasted with violent storms. The trees decayed under water. In this case, they were thriving. The men hustled to shore, dropping their exhausted bodies on the ground. Their energy came back quick enough when they realized they'd landed in a plush land of green.

Exploring, and building shelter, gave Bellingham the time he needed to disappear. No one would look for him here. He could lay low, make a plan. The men made good use of their time building another ship. The peninsula was close enough to the mainland, even a simple boat would get them across the water.

How had no one found this island before now?

He glanced about. This was not London. Nor was this Greystoke Manor. The island had a beach, but ships could not sail close, or the vessels would meet the same fate as his own. The island was perfect for a hide-away. Soon enough he would get his revenge.

His anger was a living breathing creature swelling in his chest. He fed the beast daily with memories of fiery caves and exploding ships.

Bloody hell. He could have been on that ship. So close. So close.

He could have died. His hands fisted at his sides as he realized that could have been his end. The man the crew threw over the side of the ship must have been the one to set the explosion. But then, the man had been tied up for an hour, waiting for his return. Seadog was with him. Thinking back, there must have been another on board.

Bellingham smacked his fist into his opposite palm.

Clearly, threatening Edmund hadn't worked. Now was a fine time for the man to develop a backbone. Another hindrance he didn't need. The hope of destroying the Greystokes was what kept him alive.

Bellingham no longer cared for the glowing praise from the ton. He never cared for a future of wedded bliss and children. He was a greedy bastard. No sense denying it. Money ruled the world. He'd had plenty of blunt until his cargo was destroyed. How had the brothers learned of his second supply?

Rage carved his face, twisted his mouth into a hard mask of hate. Those fools thought they were rid of him. As God was his witness, he would get even.

This time he would set a trap for the Greystoke brothers. He had time. No one would find him on this island. It wasn't even charted on the maps. No one knew it was there.

Perhaps his luck was changing. Things were looking up.

And those brothers who disrupted his plans, destroyed his shipment, would pay with their very lives.