The Bastard Girl (The Bastard Girl Series, Book #1)

Chapter 1~ The Girl of Four Names

A/N: Hey everyone! First, thanks so much for stumbling upon this story of love and tragedy that I've devoted myself to for the past several years. The Bastard Girl has been a piece of me that I've always wanted to share with everyone and I'm so glad I have the chance to present the completed series. I spent about a year and a half researching and rewriting to make sure I was presenting the most accurate and genuine version of this story that I could. The Bastard Girl is not only a romance story but is a tale about heartbreak, poverty, piracy, disabilities, and real family dysfunction. This book has seen a lot of different audiences and has undergone a lot of change. But, I'm thrilled with what I'm able to bring to you today.

While I spent a LOT of time researching and writing these characters as accurately as possible, please remember this is still a work of fiction and some details have been slightly altered to fit the plot.

The Bastard Girl is Book One of a two-part series. Book Two is the sequel to this edition titled The Cabin Boy. I will be posting The Cabin Boy after The Bastard Girl is completely posted.

Feel free to like and leave comments! I love hearing feedback from everyone!

Finally, please enjoy the story of Constantine Every and her cabin boy Edmund Hemingway in The Bastard Girl.

November 1694

Oh, how I wish I could tell you I was still completely sane afterwards, but all I saw was red and patches of his flesh littering the floorboards. I shall never forget how golden the cabin boy was or how his grin was as crooked as a thief. And I shall never forget how, using the last remains of his energy, he lifted his head just enough to catch sight of me, Constantine Every, screaming into a muffling hand because I wished so much that it was I who was catching that next lash across the back.

Darkness and the beclouding smell of salt. Those were all I could understand. My rope-bound hands scuttled across the floor in a hurry, feeling only damp wood as floorboards. That was when I realized I'd forgotten my name and the sound of my own voice. I sucked in a sharp, jolting breath and screamed.

I screamed words as loud as I could and noticed I was of British descent. Of course. I remember.

Next, my fingers moved to my eyes; a damp rag was bound tightly, blinding me. I scratched at it, trying with all my might to yank it off; yet, it refused to budge. Questions swarmed my mind like a hoard of wasps in a nest.

Where am I? Who am I?

But, there was no answer.

All I could recall was being in the Port of Dover in Dover, England scribbling furiously in my journal...about my father. My father!

The smell of salt was intensifying, dulling out the rest of my senses tenfold. I wanted to scream again—to have my father hear me. I needed him to tear off the blindfold and explain everything. I couldn't even picture him anymore, yet I was sure he was alive. More sure of it than anything else.

As I began to move, I noticed something that I didn't before. My ankles were bound harshly like my wrists, and I was still in the same clothes from my memories—boy's trousers and my father's long white blouse. I was barefoot, and splinters dug into the soft of my foot. I winced whilst moving and quickly stopped. Sweat trickled down my forehead and down my neck. The heat of the air and my panic made for an unbearable emotion.

How in the bloody hell am I going to get out? I asked myself.

A sound pulled back my attention. It was of a door opening. I propped myself up on my knees and yelled, "Get this goddamn blindfold off this instance, you cowardly swine!"