Unclaimed Heart by Kim Wilkins Page A

opportunity he had to chase quickly.”
    Constance smiled to herself. He was right, in a way. Her father did seek something precious, but it wouldn’t earn him any money.
    The Irishman continued. “Some of the others disagree with me. They say he’s on the run, had to leave England in a hurry.”
    â€œIn trouble? No, not Captain Blackchurch.”
    â€œYou don’t know then?” His voice dropped. “About his past?”
    Constance’s spine stiffened. She strained to hear every word.
    â€œThat rubbish,” snorted Gruff-voice. “Piracy off the coast of Madagascar? I don’t believe it.”
    â€œYou don’t, eh? Ask Old Harry sometime—he was there. The only crew member Cap’n Blackchurch has kept. The others he got rid of; they knew his dark secret. Cleaned himself up, hoisted the red duster instead of the Jolly Roger, and now he’s respectable Henry Blackchurch Esquire. But I reckon at night he can still smell the blood on his hands.”
    Then they were gone. Constance was numb. Could it be true? Could Father be a pirate? A thief? A murderer? She realized she hardly knew anything about him, had spent so little time in his company. Now the question seemed obvious. What kind of man was her father?

    In her cabin, alone, Constance had too much time to contemplate this question. Her suspicions, with nobody rational to help dispel them, multiplied until her mind teemed with them, and her feelings for her father iced over with fear, as though she were a character in one of Daphne’s silly books. If only Father hadn’t confessed to some horrible deed in the letter to Violet, she might have been able to dismiss these feelings. She had always taken pride in her rationality. Reason was a thing to be cherished, or so Dr. Poole said. But now, every time she saw Old Harry, all her veins and nerves lit up with the desire to ask him if the tale about her father were true. It took all her energy to hold the questions in. If it got back to Father that she knew his secret, he would be angry. And she was more afraid of that anger than ever.
    A sudden change in wind direction blew the heat away, replacing it with the chill of the Southern Ocean. In the following days they suffered through heavy squalls, and Constance no longer took her evening turn about the poop deck. Rather, she hunkered down in her cabin with her dread and wished with all her might that she was at home in England.
    Then, one night, she had a nightmare. Father, with his clothes alight, roaring: a monster, a demon, brandishing two pistols like an old engraving she had seen of Blackbeard. One was pointed at her.
    She woke. The room was filled with morning light. Somebody was knocking at her door. Alarmed, she pulled the blankets up to her chin.
    Another soft knock. “Miss Constance?” It was Old Harry, with her breakfast.
    â€œCome in.” She had slept late. Usually she was up and dressed by now, sitting at her writing desk working on a letter to Daphne that enumerated every fear she felt about Father.
    He brought her a tray with warm oats and honey on it, placing it on the little table in the centre of the room.
    â€œGood weather has returned today, miss,” he said as he straightened his back. “Our head is now right for the Cape; we’ve only twenty-eight degrees of longitude to run down. The captain says we’ll stop there a few days. You’ll be able to post your letter.”
    At mention of the captain, Constance felt the terror of her dream return to her. She couldn’t help herself letting free a little groan of fear.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, miss? You’ve gone quite pale. Do you want me to call the surgeon?”
    â€œNo, no. I’m . . . I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile. “Harry, is my father . . . he’s a good man, yes?”
    â€œWhy yes, of course.”
    â€œYou’ve known him a long time.”
    â€œI’ve been with