Fred hoyle and john elli.., p.1
Star Keeper, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PATRICIA POTTER
“Patricia Potter is a master storyteller, a powerful weaver of romantic tales.” —Mary Jo Putney, New York Times–bestselling author
“One of the romance genre’s finest talents.” —Romantic Times
“Patricia Potter will thrill lovers of the suspense genre as well as those who enjoy a good romance.” —Booklist
“Potter proves herself a gifted writer as artisan, creating a rich fabric of strong characters whose wit and intellect will enthrall even as their adventures entertain.” —BookPage
“When a historical romance [gets] the Potter treatment, the story line is pure action and excitement, and the characters are wonderful.” —BookBrowse
“Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review of Beloved Warrior
“[Potter] proves that she’s adept at penning both enthralling historicals and captivating contemporary novels.” —Booklist, starred review of Dancing with a Rogue
Star Keeper
Patricia Potter
With affection and thanks to Carolyn McSparren,
Phyllis Appleby, and Beverly Williams, who struggle
so valiantly to keep my books, and me, on track
Prologue
Scotland, 1769
The feel of danger prickled along his spine.
John Patrick slid farther down into his seat, his gaze wandering around the noisy, odorous tavern and its disreputable occupants. He had always had an affinity for places like this, much to his older brother’s chagrin.
He had never understood it himself. He was a graduate of the College of Philadelphia, which, along with Harvard, represented the best in education in the colonies—and yet he’d always sidled toward the underbelly of Philadelphia. Just as he was doing here, in Glasgow, Scotland.
His brother, Noel, always shook his head in dismay. “If there’s a fight within ten miles, John Patrick will find it. If there’s a damsel to be rescued, John Patrick will sweep her away. If there’s an argument to be had, John Patrick will be at its center.”
Noel, on the other hand, would walk ten miles to escape discord—except perhaps in the case of the damsel. Noel, now a staid Philadelphia physician, had inherited his mother’s reasoning, compassionate nature. But John Patrick had inherited his father’s streak of recklessness, his wont for tilting at windmills and adopting lost causes.
But it wasn’t just adventure John Patrick sought, especially on this trip to England and Scotland. As a boy, he’d been passionate about righting wrongs. Now, he had seized upon this trip as an opportunity to right one particular injustice: his father’s death sentence.
After the Battle of Culloden, twenty-four years ago, Ian Sutherland had been condemned to hang, along with the other Scottish rebels. Only a twist of fate had saved him from the gallows, and seen him transported to the colonies as a bond servant. Of course, much had changed since then—including Ian’s marriage to John Patrick’s American mother—but Ian Sutherland still could not return to his homeland without risking execution.
John Patrick had honestly believed he could accomplish his goal. He’d never failed at anything he’d put his heart into. He had stood first in his class and been labeled brilliant by his teachers. He’d studied British law and had prepared a sound case for his father’s pardon. Rebuffed over and over again in London, he’d finally hired a British barrister to pursue his action while he took a long-awaited visit to the old Sutherland property in the Highlands.
There, he had fallen in love with the wild, lonely Highlands and become even more determined to reinstate what should be his family’s. God, but he detested Fat George, who sat on the English throne and ran roughshod over the rights of both the Scots and the American colonists.…
The prickling sensation grew stronger. His eyes darted around the tavern again. Something had alerted him. Something or someone.
But no one else seemed perturbed. Every man jack in the room appeared to be roaring drunk; they probably wouldn’t feel a sword if it was thrust into their bellies. ’Twas a motley crew, to be sure. Sailors mostly, recounting tales of great adventure, of China and India and pirates. They’d accepted John Patrick as one of them. He had a talent for mimicry and could imitate his father’s Scots burr perfectly.
But tonight he chose to listen. The outrageous tales made his life seem staid and stuffy, and his future even more so. He shuddered at the idea of the dull law office that awaited him when he returned.
He held his hand up, and a barmaid flashed him a practiced smile. It was an appreciative glance, full of invitation.
Yet he was too preoccupied for flirtation. He wanted to stay and pursue his father’s case, but his funds were nearly gone, and he knew it was time to return to Philadelphia. He would not abandon his fight, though. Somehow he would see it through.
The barmaid brought him another tankard. “I donna’ usually see gents like ye in here,” she said, leaning against him as she set the container on the table. “Wha’ aboot a visit up the stairs?”
Her large bosom brushed his arm, and he received a full whiff of an overperfumed and underwashed body. Suddenly, he wanted to leave. He’d already had too much to drink.
“Drink up, dearie,” the barmaid insisted. “’Tis the best in the house, an’ the night is young.” He looked at the tankard, wondering whether it was indeed any better than the last one. He had not expected much here, and his expectations had been well met.
“Try it,” the woman coaxed.
The prickling sensation hadn’t ceased, but now he thought he understood. ’Twas his virtue, such as it was, that was in danger, nothing more. And the devil knew what that was worth.
Well, he would finish this tankard and be on his way to his more respectable lodgings. Sailing was at dawn, only a few hours away. He would not have time to sleep this night, much less sample the dubious charms of the barmaid.
He tipped the tankard and was surprised to find the brew far better than the last portion. Now anxious to leave, he gulped the remainder. He tried to fathom the distinctive taste and was about to ask its source when the barmaid disappeared. Shrugging, he set the tankard down.
John Patrick threw some coins on the table, then started to rise. He’d apparently had more than he thought, because he found himself clutching the table for balance.
The room started swimming. One man became two, then three. His hand tried to tighten around the edge of the table, but he no longer had any strength. He swayed dangerously.
With a sinking feeling, he knew suddenly that he had been drugged. He reached out, then felt himself falling, and everything went black.
Chapter 1
Pennsylvania, April 1777
They came at night.
Annette Carey woke to the sound of hooves and drunken shouts and the flickering glow of torches. She ran to the hall and found her father emerging from his room in a nightshirt.
Betsy, the housemaid, appeared below the stairs, her red hair wild and her buxom body encased in a red nightrobe.
“Dear Almighty,” she wailed.
Annette’s father hurried down the steps to soothe her. Betsy had been his wife’s maid and was as much a member of the family as Annette was. Her cries echoed through the house and summoned Franklin, the manservant, who came frantically pulling on his coat. His shirttails were only partially stuffed in his trousers.
Someone pounded on the door. No polite knock. No ordinary visitors.
Annette followed her father down the stairs, her slippered feet padding silently and her heart thumping. It was as loud to her as the drums that had accompanied a rebel march down the streets of Philadelphia not a fortnight ago.
The shouts of the men outside filled the house.
“Traitor!”
“Burn ’em out!”
“Come out or we will burn you out!”
Her father started for the door. Annette caught his nightshirt. “Please don’t go out there, Papa.”
He looked at her sadly. “We can’t stay inside forever. I will talk to them. They know me.”
“But you cannot reason with a mob.” Her words came out low and ragged. She hated the fear she heard in her own voice.
“Child, they will burn the house down if I don’t come out,” he said gently. “The only chance we have is reasoning with them.”
Annette felt her protest crumbling. Weeks earlier, a mob had burned the home of a royalist suspected of selling supplies to General Howe. All the occupants died in the fire.
Numbly she allowed her father to disentangle himself from her. He walked heavily toward the door. Betsy and Franklin, their faces white, had backed against the wall, watching silently.
He’ll be able to convince them he means them no harm. Her father was one of the best-liked men in the county. He had sent food to those in need, given substantial sums to the Quakers for the hospital, and often loaned money without interest. But tales of atrocities toward other Tory families were rampant. Still, she’d never thought they would come here, to her home.
Her father opened the door and she steeled herself to stand at his side, to face the hatred, the shadows, the torches. Terror filled her as she saw the masked faces, waiting. She heard a shot, could almost feel it speeding toward her. It was so loud. So were the shouts: “Get ’em!”
Her father tried to yell above the noise, but it was like sighing in the wind. In seconds, he wa
Annette felt her arms being seized. She was aware of Betsy and Franklin being swept along by the mob.
“Burn the house.” One voice issued orders, dominating the others. She recognized its owner immediately despite the hood. Jacob Templeton, a man who had tried to buy land from them and been rebuffed.
He had probably gotten these other men drunk, and accused her father of conspiring with the British because he wouldn’t sign the loyalty agreement. All for want of a few acres. But her father was innocent. He was guilty only of being true to his beliefs, of being reluctant to abandon the king who had given his family this fine land.
The senselessness of it enraged her.
Her father!
She struggled against the arms that held her, struggled to go to the one constant in her life, the man whose gentleness and wisdom had always guided her.
Dear God, why hadn’t she found a musket? Why hadn’t they fought back? She would never surrender so easily again. She kicked one of her captors suddenly, surprising him, and jerked away as he sank to the ground in agony. “Papa!” she cried. But two more sets of hands grabbed her, pulling her head back by her long, dark hair.
Pain shot through her neck and scalp, but still she fought them. One man hit her across the face, momentarily stunning her. “Witch,” he said.
She spat at him, still trying to twist out of his grasp, and succeeded in freeing her head for a moment. Her gaze went to her father. He’d been stripped of his nightshirt, leaving only the smallclothes.
Her father was pleading. “Jacob,” she heard him say. “Don’t hurt my daughter.”
“We warned you,” said a voice muffled by a cloth hood but distinctive enough to be identified. Robert Lewis. “We won’t have no Tories here.”
Ropes were tied to her father’s wrists. The men secured each rope to the trunk of a tree, pulling until he was stretched between them.
Annette smelled the acrid odor of hot tar. Desperate, she struggled even harder against her captors. One of the hoods slipped off in the struggle. Charles Parker. She had given Mr. Parker’s son a puppy six months ago, and she had sat with his wife when she was dying. How many others had she shared lives with? Dancing at their weddings, weeping at funerals, and rejoicing at births.
Friends and neighbors.
“No!” she screamed. She heard her father’s muffled moan, then his cry of pain as the hot tar was applied. Suddenly the attackers stopped, and she prayed they had come to reason. Her father was slumped against the ropes, but he was looking toward the house. Annette turned, too, and cried out again at this new horror.
Her home was on fire, the hungry flames eclipsing the sky. The roar filled the sudden silence, then embers began to drift from the house to set a series of new fires. One caught the barn just as one of the servants was driving out the animals. The horses, including her mare, Sasha, shrieked with terror. A woman wailed in anguish. A roar went up from the attackers. A cacophony of sound. Of hell. The worst nightmare possible.
Sweat drenched her nightrobe. She wanted to let herself fall, to run far away. But she couldn’t leave her father. She had to be strong for him. She wrenched her body out of the hands that held her, surprising the men staring at the inferno they’d created. She ran toward her father, slipping again and again, dodging out of the reach of those who would catch her. And then she was at her father’s side.
He straightened, meeting her gaze.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know,” he answered softly. “Courage, girl.”
Then she was seized again, her hands tied behind her back.
Courage.
But she had none. Everything was gone. The room where she had been born, where she’d lived her entire life. The parlor filled with laughter, her father’s study where they discussed philosophy, the barn where she’d groomed Sasha and helped birth her foal.
Everything she knew and loved.
Friends and neighbors. Thank God her mother wasn’t alive to see this.
She heard laughter and felt herself jerked upright. Feathers were being tossed on the tar that now covered her father. She couldn’t even recognize him. His head had dropped, and she didn’t know whether he was conscious or not. She heard the bawdy lyrics of a song mocking the king.
The hands imprisoning her fell away then. The men in hoods were dispersing. Betsy and Franklin came running to her. Blood flowed from a cut on Franklin’s forehead. Awkwardly, they untied the rope binding her hands, then Betsy put her arms around her, weeping silently.
But Annette had no tears. Not now.
She gently disengaged herself. “We must take care of Father.”
Franklin, his face creased with grief, nodded.
She knew now both she and her father should have heeded the mumbling going on in their community. They had heard of other cases of royalists being tarred and feathered. Some had even been hanged. But her father had been known for his fairness and generosity, and while they had not aided the patriot cause, neither had they harmed it by selling foodstuffs to the British.
Friends and neighbors!
She vowed she would never trust anyone again. And that no one would hurt her family again. Ever. She would do anything she could to aid the British and bring about the downfall of the rebels.
Off the Atlantic Coast, October 1777
His beloved Star Rider was trapped.
Bloody damned Brits! John Patrick Sutherland cursed them as lightning streaked through the sky, illuminating his schooner. He had ceased the firing of cannon, hoping to slip away from the British trap in this cloud-darkened night. But the sudden squall had given the better-armed Brits the advantage they needed.
John Patrick, his pilot beside him, took the wheel. It had been risky, more than risky, this trip downriver, but he had been told that a merchantman carrying gunpowder to the Brits would make a run this night, and it had been too tempting a target to pass by. And he had destroyed the merchantman. But the resulting explosion and fireball had summoned help John Patrick had not expected. His ship, small and deadly against merchantmen, was no match for warships. It depended on speed, but now there was no place to run.
A cannonball whistled past him, smashing into the mainmast, toppling it to the deck. Another cannonball hit the stern of the ship, sending a hail of flaming splinters raining down on the crew. He heard cries of pain, then curses as the ship took another blow to its side.
The Star Rider rolled leeward. Its aft decks were aflame, lighting the river. His ship—and crew—were going down.
“Lower lifeboats,” he ordered, then turned to his pilot. “Maneuver the Rider as close to shore as you can.” The Delaware River was damnably cold, and he didn’t want his remaining men to freeze to death.
He looked toward the enemy ships. They, too, were lowering boats. The Brits would try to capture the American privateers as they escaped. More than the crew, however, they wanted the captain—the man known only by the same name as his ship. John Patrick, the Star Rider, had jealously guarded his true identity all these years, not wanting his family to suffer for his actions.
But now …
He had to give his men a chance to get away. The Brits were calling them pirates, and he knew the Crown might well hang the crew of so notorious a privateer as the Star Rider, despite the fact that it held a lawful commission from the colony of Maryland.
He had no intention of finishing his life at the end of a British rope, either. And there was no hope of avoiding such a fate once they discovered that the captain of the privateer was really John Patrick Sutherland, a deserter from the British navy. It wouldn’t matter to them that he’d been impressed, drugged and taken from a squalid tavern in Glasgow, that he’d been beaten and forced to fight those he had no quarrel with.
He did have a quarrel with the king, however. A very big quarrel, and one that wouldn’t be settled until every last lobster coat was driven from American shores.
John Patrick supervised the loading of the lifeboats, then ordered the pilot to join them. He and his first mate, Ivy, used the winches to lower them as cannon continued to pummel the ship, one driving a hole just at the water line.
Twenty minutes. They had twenty minutes before the ship sank. No longer.
