Just to whet your appetites, here's the first chapter of MaryLu Tyndall's exciting novel The Blue Enchantress.
St. Kitts, September 1718
“Gentlemen, what will ye offer for this rare treasure of a lady?” The
words crashed over Hope Westcott like bilge water. “Why, she’ll
make any of ye a fine wife, a cook, a housemaid”—the man gave a
lascivious chuckle—“whate’er ye desire.”
“How ’bout someone to warm me bed at night,” one man bellowed,
and a cacophony of chortles gurgled through the air.
Hope slammed her eyes shut against the mob of men who pressed
on three sides of the tall wooden platform, shoving one another to get a
better peek at her. Something crawled over her foot, and she pried her
eyes open, keeping her face lowered. A black spider skittered away. Red
scrapes and bruises marred her bare feet. When had she lost her satin
shoes—the gold braided ones she’d worn to impress Lord Falkland? She
“What d’ye say? How much for this fine young lady?” The man
grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Pain, like a dozen
claws, pierced her skull. “She’s a handsome one, to be sure. And these
golden locks.” He attempted to slide his fingers through her matted
strands, but before becoming hopelessly entangled in them, he jerked
his hand free, wrenching out a clump of her hair. Hope winced. “Have
ye seen the likes of them?”
Ribald whistles and groans of agreement spewed over her.
“Two shillings,” one man yelled.
Hope dared to glance across the throng amassing before the auction
block. A wild sea of lustful eyes sprayed over her. A band of men dressed
in garments stained with dirt and sweat bunched toward the front,
yelling out bids. Behind them, other men in velvet waistcoats leaned
their heads together, no doubt to discuss the value of this recent offering,
while studying her as if she were a breeding mare. Slaves knelt in the
dirt along the outskirts of the mob, waiting for their masters. Beyond
them, a row of wooden buildings stretched in either direction. Brazen
women emerged from a tavern and draped themselves over the railings,
watching Hope’s predicament with interest. On the street, ladies in
modish gowns averted their eyes as they tugged the men on their arms
from the sordid scene.
Hope lowered her head. This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming. I am
still on the ship. Just a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Humiliation swept
over her with an ever-rising dread as the reality of her situation blasted
its way through her mind.
She swallowed hard and tried to drown out the grunts and salacious
insults tossed her way by the bartering rabble. Perhaps if she couldn’t
hear them, if she couldn’t see them, they would disappear and she would
wake up back home, safe in Charles Towne, safe in her bedchamber, safe
with her sisters, just like she was before she’d put her trust in a man who
“Egad, man. Two shillings, is it? For this beauty?” The auctioneer
spit off to the side. The yellowish glob landed on Hope’s skirt. Her heart
felt as though it had liquefied into an equally offensive blob and oozed
down beside it.
How did I get here? In her terror, she could not remember. She raised
her gaze to the auctioneer. Cold eyes, hard like marbles, met hers, and a
sinister grin twisted his lips. He adjusted his tricorn to further shade his
chubby face from the burning sun.
“She looks too feeble for any real work,” another man yelled.
The sounds of the crowd dimmed. The men’s fists forged into the
air as if pushing through mud. Garbled laughter drained from their
yellow-toothed mouths like molasses. Hope’s heart beat slower, and she
wished for death.
The gentle lap of waves caressed her ears, their peaceful cadence
drawing her away. Tearing her gaze from the nightmarish spectacle, she
glanced over her shoulder, past the muscled henchmen who’d escorted
her here. Two docks jutted out into a small bay brimming with sparkling
turquoise water where several ships rocked back and forth as if shaking their heads at her in pity.
Salt and papaya and sun combined in a pleasant
aroma that lured her mind away from her present horror.
Her eyes locked upon the glimmering red and gold figurine of
Ares at the bow of Lord Falkland’s ship. She blinked back the burning
behind her eyes. When she’d boarded it nigh a week past—or was it two
weeks?—all her hopes and dreams had boarded with her. Somewhere
along the way, they had been cast into the depths of the sea. She only
wished she had joined them. Although the ship gleamed majestically in
the bay, all she had seen of it for weeks had been the four walls of a small
cabin below deck.
The roar of the crowd wrenched her mind back to the present and
turned her face forward.
“ ’Tis robbery, and ye know it,” the auctioneer barked. “Where are
any of ye clods goin’ t’ find a real lady like this?”
A stream of perspiration raced down Hope’s back as if seeking
escape. But there was no escape. She was about to be sold as a slave, a
harlot to one of these cruel and prurient taskmasters. A fate worse than
death. A fate her sister had fought hard to keep her from. A fate Hope
had brought upon herself. Numbness crept over her even as her eyes
filled with tears. Oh God. This can’t be happening.
She gazed upward at the blue sky dusted with thick clouds, hoping
for some deliverance, some sign that God had not abandoned her.
The men continued to haggle, their voices booming louder and
louder, grating over her like the howls of demons.
Her head felt like it had detached from her body and was floating
up to join the clouds. Palm trees danced in the light breeze coming off
the bay. Their tall trunks and fronds formed an oscillating blur of green
and brown. The buildings, the mob, and the whole heinous scene joined
the growing mass and began twirling around Hope. Her legs turned to
jelly, and she toppled to the platform.
“Get up!” A sharp crack stung her cheek. Two hands like rough rope
clamped over her arms and dragged her to her feet. Pain lanced through
her right foot where a splinter had found a home. Holding a hand to her
stinging face, Hope sobbed.
The henchman released her with a grunt of disgust.
“I told ye she won’t last a week,” one burly man shouted.
“She ain’t good for nothing but to look at.”
Planting a strained grin upon his lips, the auctioneer swatted her
rear end. “Aye, but she’s much more stout than she appears, gentlemen.”
Horrified and no longer caring about the repercussions, Hope
slapped the man’s face. He raised his fist, and she cowered. The crowd
roared its mirth.
“One pound, then,” a tall man sporting a white wig called out. “I
could use me a pretty wench.” Withdrawing a handkerchief, he dabbed
at the perspiration on his forehead.
Wench. Slave. Hope shook her head, trying to force herself to accept
what her mind kept trying to deny. A sudden surge of courage, based
on naught but her instinct to survive, stiffened her spine. She thrust out
her chin and faced the auctioneer. “I beg your pardon, sir. There’s been a
mistake. I am no slave.”
“Indeed?” He cocked one brow and gave her a patronizing smirk.
Hope searched the horde for a sympathetic face—just one. “My
name is Miss Hope Westcott,” she shouted. “My father is Admiral
Henry Westcott. I live in Charles Towne with my two sisters.”
“And I’m King George,” a farmer howled, slapping his knee.
“My father will pay handsomely for my safe return.” Hope scanned
the leering faces. Not one. Not one look of sympathy or belief or
kindness. Fear crawled up her throat. She stomped her foot, sending
a shard of pain up her leg. “You must believe me,” she sobbed. “I don’t
Ignoring the laughter, Hope spotted a purple plume fluttering in
the breeze atop a gold-trimmed hat in the distance. “Arthur!” She darted
for the stairs but two hands grabbed her from behind and held her in
place. “Don’t leave me! Lord Falkland!” She struggled in her captor’s
grasp. His grip tightened, sending a throbbing ache across her back.
Swerving about, Lord Falkland tapped his cane into the dirt and
tipped the brim of his hat up, but the distance between them forbade
Hope a vision of his expression.
“Tell them who I am, Arthur. Please save me!”
He leaned toward the woman beside him and said something, then
coughed into his hand. What is he doing? The man who once professed
an undying love for Hope, the man who promised to marry her, to love
her forever, the man who bore the responsibility for her being here in
the first place. How could he stand there and do nothing while she met
such a hideous fate?
The elegant lady beside him turned her nose up at Hope, then,
threading her arm through Lord Falkland’s, she wheeled him around
and pulled him down the road.
Hope watched him leave, and with each step of his cordovan boots,
her heart and her very soul sank deeper into the wood of the auction
block beneath her feet.
Nothing made any sense. Had the world gone completely mad?
“Two pounds,” a corpulent man in the back roared.
A memory flashed through Hope’s mind as she gazed across the
band of men. A vision of African slaves, women and children, being
auctioned off in Charles Towne. How many times had she passed by,
ignoring them, uncaring, unconcerned by the proceedings?
Was this God’s way of repaying her for her selfishness, her lack of
Disappointed curses rumbled among the men at the front, who had
obviously reached their limit of coin.
The auctioneer’s mouth spread wide, greed dripping from its corners.
“Five pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear six for this lovely lady?”
A blast of hot air rolled over Hope, stealing her breath. Human
sweat, fish, and horse manure filled her nose and saturated her skin.
The unforgiving sun beat a hot hammer atop her head until she felt she
would ignite into a burning torch at any moment. Indeed, she prayed
she would. Better to be reduced to a pile of ashes than endure what the
future held for her.
“Six pounds,” a short man with a round belly and stiff brown wig
yelled from the back of the mob in a tone that indicated he knew what
he was doing and had no intention of losing his prize. Decked in a
fine damask waistcoat, silk breeches, and a gold-chained pocket watch,
which he kept snapping open and shut, he exuded wealth and power.
Hope’s stomach twisted into a vicious knot, and she clutched her
throat to keep from heaving whatever shred of moisture remained in
her empty stomach.
The auctioneer gaped at her, obviously shocked she could command
such a price. Rumblings overtook the crowd as the short man pushed his
way through to claim his prize. The closer he came, the faster Hope’s
chest heaved and the lighter her head became. Blood pounded in her
ears, drowning out the groans of the mob. No, God. No.
“Do I hear seven?” the auctioneer bellowed. “She’s young and will
breed you some fine sons.”
“Just what I’ll be needing.” The man halted at the platform, glanced
over the crowd for any possible competitors, then took the stairs to
Hope’s right. He halted beside her too close for propriety’s sake and
assailed her with the stench of lard and tobacco. A long purple scar
crossed his bloated red face as his eyes grazed over her like a stallion on
a breeding mare. Hope shuddered and gasped for a breath of air. Her
palms broke out in a sweat, and she rubbed them on her already moist
The auctioneer threw a hand to his hip and gazed over the crowd.
The man squeezed her arms, and Hope snapped from his grasp
and took a step back, abhorred at his audacity. He chuckled. “Not much
muscle on her, but she’s got pluck.”
He belched, placed his watch back into the fob pocket of his
breeches, and removed a leather pouch from his belt. “Six pounds it is.”
The silver tip of a sword hung at his side. If Hope were quick about
it, perhaps she could grab it and, with some luck, fight her way out of
here. She clenched her teeth. Who was she trying to fool? Where was
her pirate sister when she needed her? Surely Faith would know exactly
what to do. Yet what did it matter? Hope would rather die trying to
escape than become this loathsome man’s slave.
As the man counted out the coins into the auctioneer’s greedy hands,
Hope reached for the sword.