Another battle. Another man down by his blade.
He’d been watching the captain’s back for too long. Not that he was inclined to move on from his current lifestyle. The privateering business of Captain Folback suited him just fine. No one to know him. No one to answer to but his mates. Just part of the crew.
Des took a quick glance about the ship’s deck as he blocked a cutlass from his right. Most of the men of the Firehawk were still standing, but they weren’t winning.
Losing, very possibly, for the first time in ages.
“We aren’t making any progress, Captain,” Des shouted over his shoulder.
“Well then, make some damn progress,” Captain Folback yelled back in between clashes of his sword.
Make some damn progress. Easier said than done.
Des caught sight of the door below the quarterdeck. Get to the captain of this pirate ship and it’d be over. Quickest way to victory.
That the captain—or at least the obvious captain—of the Red Dragon hadn’t appeared in the battle yet was telling. The man saw his downfall looming.
“I’m going after the captain,” Des yelled to Captain Folback as he stepped away into the stinking haze of burnt gunpowder.
Des moved across the deck in quick order, avoiding flying steel and flailing bodies. Just as he reached the door leading to the captain’s quarters, a shriek reached his ears and a body jumped down on him from the quarterdeck above.
The mass hit him in the shoulders, making him stumble into the wall beside the door. Half-doubled over, he caught himself against the rough wood just before he fell to his knees.
Not fast enough.
The length of a dagger was at his neck before he could draw himself up to his full height and ready his sword.
Des shifted, looking up at his assailant, looking for a way out.
For how much he tempted death day in and day out, the instinct for self-preservation always won—no matter how he tried to sequester it.
He froze.
Eyes. Female eyes.
Staring at him. Wide. Manic.
Yet she wasn’t slicing the blade across his neck, wasn’t drawing blood, wasn’t moving.
She blinked, her blue-green eyes sparking into motion. “What are ye doing on this ship? Ye pirates?” she asked in a vicious whisper.
Des could easily overpower her. One quick blow to her belly and she’d be down.
But he couldn’t move.
“Speak, ye cur.”
Des shifted slightly upward. The blade came with him. “Orders from the crown, privateers to take down the Red Dragon.”
“English.” A screech filled the air behind her, but she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at the battle raging across the main deck. “Aye. How is that going fer ye?”
Des shrugged. “Could be better.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I can make it worth yer while, boarding the Red Dragon.”
“What?” His eyebrows drew together.
“Yer men can die, or I can make it worth yer while.”
He shook his head, the words she said not making any sense. “What?”
“Ye daft?” She stepped in on him, pressing the dagger into his neck.
Des shook his head, what little he could for the blade starting to draw blood.
“Yer English? Yer not flying a false flag?”
“Yes. English.”
“Then get me off the Red Dragon.” She went to her toes and leaned toward his ear, her voice dropping to a whisper Des could barely hear under the din of steel on steel, echoes of pistols, and screams of the wounded. “Get me off and I’ll help ye.”
Des nodded.
“Swear it.”
His look shifted past her head. The battle was no closer to being won—or over—than when he had charged in this direction. He wasn’t about to lose any more of his mates. They needed all the help they could get.
He met her sinewy gaze. “I swear it.”
She stared at him for a moment longer, judging his worth. She gave a slight nod. “Step to your left.”
Des did as ordered, her blade following his neck.
With her toe she flipped open the door under the quarterdeck. “In here.”
Des stepped backward, ducking his head under the short frame of the door.
He half expected a sword into his back.
But there was nothing. Nothing but stale air.
She kept pushing him backward, backward.
They passed by a long rough-hewn table, benches on either side. But his stare stayed trained on her.
Blue-green eyes. Dark lashes. Dirty face. A blue kerchief wrapping the full of her head, tied in a knot above her left temple. Her clothes an odd mesh of a tattered skirt sewn upward in the center front and back, trousers tight to her legs, a white shirt under a corset and an ill-fitting black jacket—too big for her frame, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows.
Back farther.
His shoulder blades hit another wall.
“Here, this is it.” Her right arm still holding the blade to his neck, her left hand dipped past Des and she opened the latch in the door to Des’s right.
“In.”
She loosened the blade on his neck and Des turned to the side, stepping into the room. Captain’s quarters.
She shoved him into the room, stepping in behind him, and her body ran into his. Slight. Bones. No mass on her at all. A feather bouncing off of him.
She stepped to the side of a wide desk, the blade hanging loose at her side now that she had gotten him into the room.
The smell hit him instantly.
Rot. Meat rotting. Rotting in the heat of Caribbean waters.
He coughed, the stench sending tears springing to his eyes.
His arm went to his nose and he buried his nostrils into the thick of his blood-splattered white sleeve. “What? What is that?” He looked to the woman.
“He’s been dead for days now—a week, maybe more.” She turned from Des and pointed to the far side of the room, past the foot of the bed set against the back wall.
A corpse.
A blanket half over it. Folded into the corner.
Decaying.
“Weeks, now, I guess. I lost track.” She jumped in front of Des, looking up at him. “My husband, Redthorn, the captain of this ship.”
Horror sent Des’s eyes to slits. “What in the hell—”
“I’ve hidden it. He told me it was yellow fever taking him before he died. He told me to hide it. The crew thinks he’s still alive—they think he’s got the pox, so no one has dared to enter the room. I give them orders from Redthorn, dead though he is.”
Des shook his head. “What? Why?”
“I think to survive. What do ye think would happen to me if they knew he was dead?” Her right arm flung out—the tip of the blade pointing toward the main deck, her voice shaking with rage—with frustration. “Jackals, the lot of them. I wouldn’t last a day. And it would be a dastardly day.”
“Aye. It would be that.” His gaze went to the corpse in the corner. “But what makes you think we’re any better?”
“I don’t. But I’ll cross that bridge when I need to.”
Full understanding of her desperation hit him and Des looked at her again. Looked at her not as someone about to kill him. Very possibly an ally. “What do you propose to do?”
“Have the crew surrender. Direct order from the captain.”
Des nodded. “Your men will listen?”
“Aye. They will. If there’s one thing the lot of them are terrified of, it’s Redthorn. Death is preferable to his rage.” She paused, oddly shaking her head, losing herself in time for a long second. “Was. Was preferable.”
“Agreed.” Des grabbed her left arm, pulling her to the door—more to escape from the stench than anything else. “I’ll get you off this ship and onto the Firehawk, but we go back out there now—now before another man falls.”
She ripped her arm from his grip, her blue-gre
en eyes a death glare upon him. Her show of scorn for his manhandling obvious, she tucked her dagger into the sheath about the top of her right boot and shoved past him, stalking toward the door.
Charging out past the long table, her steps slowed as she looked over her shoulder at him. “Get your blade about my neck and shove me out there.”
Des pulled his dagger from his boot and jumped forward, grabbing her about the chest from behind and locking her arms to her sides. He set his blade along the side of her neck.
She angled her head to look up at him, her look commanding. “Make it real.”
He yanked her hard against his body.
“And this.” She lifted her right hand and clasped it onto the back of his blade, sinking it against her own skin. With a harsh intake of breath, her head winced away at the pain, her whole body tightening against him, but she didn’t stop until a line of blood on her neck appeared.
Satisfied, she ran her fingers against blade, staining blood onto her thumb and fingers and then smearing a red stain across her cheek. Her look set forward. “Go.”
One breath to steel himself and Des kicked open the door.
The woman went crazy—screaming, squirming, clawing, trying to break free from his arm holding her captive.
So wild she broke his hold about her chest for a second.
She didn’t run, didn’t spin away from him, though her hands continued to claw at him.
An act. A good one.
He clamped down on his hold about her, hauling her tighter into him, picking her up.
Her feet started swinging, kicking him in the shins.
Bugger it, the wench.
Des strode into the thick of the battle on the deck, his voice booming. “Tell them.”
“Halt.” She screamed the word over the noise, her voice somehow louder than Des’s own. “Red Dragon—halt. Redthorn has surrendered. Toss yer weapons, mateys.”
The clanking of swords around them dwindled, the smattering of silence working its way in a ring to the outer edges of the deck.
With both hands she pulled down on his arm and Des set her feet onto the deck, though he kept her clamped to him, his bloody blade still long on her neck.
“Toss ‘em, Red Dragon. Toss ‘em blades or face Redthorn.” Her words echoed over the decks of the two ships connected with grappling hooks and rope, wood hull creaking against wood hull.
Swords clanked onto the deck to his left. To his right. In front of him.
His crewmates started rounding up the Red Dragon men, shoving them to the far railing.
Captain Folback made his way to Des, his thick hand going to Des’s shoulder as he looked at the woman still captive in his arm. “Well done, lad. Where’s the captain?”
Des leaned to Captain Folback’s ear, his voice a low whisper. “Dead. Don’t let it be known till you secure the lot of them.”
Captain Folback nodded, sheathing his cutlass and stepping away from Des to manage the prisoners he was about to secure. They’d be shackled in the hold of the Red Dragon and then the pirate crew would be delivered to Nevis where the lot of them would be hanged.
Des looked down at the head of the woman he still held clutched to him.
“Captain.” Des’s gaze moved to Captain Folback.
Folback turned and looked at him, his wiry left eyebrow lifting.
“The girl.” He nodded downward with his head. “She’s mine, Captain.”
Captain Folback laughed, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Good t’ see ye take an interest for once, Des.” His look went to the woman. “Ye just earned yerself first mate and Johnson’s cabin, as he’ll be taking over this ship. She’s in yer room, yer responsibility. Hellcat, that one. I saw her fighting earlier. Keep her under control.”
The woman tensed in front of Des, the slip of her body going rigid.
She’d just taken a chance she had no right to entertain—trading one nefarious crew for a wholly unpredictable one. They weren’t saints. Not a one of them.
But it’d been her only option.
Good thing she landed on his shoulders.
{ Chapter 3 }
The cabin was small.
Not that the Redthorn’s captain’s quarters on the Red Dragon were palatial, but there was room to walk about. To stretch.
She stood still in the middle of the room, counting her breaths.
One. Two. Three. Four.
It did nothing to still the mania rattling about in her head.
Her limbs were frozen while her mind was hot oil on a skillet.
Breath held, her eyes shifted about while her body could not. The cabin the Englishman had deposited her in had a bed, three feet of open floorboards, with a small desk on one end and a chest at the other adjacent to the foot of the bed. That was it. That was all.
Her legs finally responded to the command to move and she walked from the desk to the chest. Four steps.
Four steps of space.
Her life continued to get tinier and tinier.
At least there was a window. Small grace.
She crawled onto the bed and her body started to quiver, every muscle coiling into tight balls. Shaking, she dropped onto her side on the bed, her eyes trained on what she could see of the grey sky above through the window, soft wispy clouds drifting under the thick blanket of grey hovering above.
The window faced the opposite side from where the Red Dragon was still tethered to this ship. The sounds went on for an eternity. Cargo moving from one ship to the other. Barrels scraping. Boots thumping. Orders barked. Blasphemies grumbled.
Every muscle in her body had gone rigid, vibrating with tautness until the ropes between the two ships were severed and the Firehawk pulled free, moving through the waves, a horse unbridled.
What the hell have I done?
Traded sure death for uncertain death?
Her limbs turning to jelly, she rolled onto her back, staring at the rough planks of wood above her.
She’d done what she had to.
It’d been her only choice and now she had to live with it, come what may.
Words Redthorn had whispered into her ear for the last six years.
Come what may.
~~~
An hour passed before the door to the cabin swung open and the man—Des, the captain had called him—moved into the room carrying a basin of water. He went to the chest and set it atop, then dropped a cloth for washing onto the foot of the bed by her feet.
She watched him as he moved, truly looking at him without panic and the fight for survival clouding her sight. He was tall with wide shoulders. This cabin would be too small for him—even if he weren’t now saddled with her in it as well.
His brown hair—not quite long, not quite short—had streaks of blonde strands in it—too many days of sun on the ship. His nose straight and perfectly proportioned to the strong cheekbones that looked chiseled out of stone. The whole of him handsome, but it was his eyes that were his most interesting feature—canny hazel eyes that sent brown and blue and gold in an exploding starburst from his pupils.
Eyes that didn’t miss the slightest movement. Taking everything in. Calculating.
She swung in a circle, sitting up, and her calves dropped out from under her to drape off the side of the bed.
“You can wash.” His stare had been squarely set upon the basin since he’d entered the room and he finally looked up to her.
Why did he look so familiar? He couldn’t possibly have been part of the Red Dragon crew at some point—could he?
“Are you injured from the battle?” he asked the question, his stare unflinching.
Eyes she knew. Hazel eyes she’d seen before.
His mouth pulled to a tight line. “You need to answer me. Know that I’m not going to hurt you, but I do need to know if you are injured.”
“I know ye.”
Des’s eyes narrowed at her. “You don’t know me.”
“I do.” She leaned forward, her eyes squinting as she studie
d his face. “Ye—you were him. The one. I only saw ye for a moment—a second—and ye dropped in front of me.”
“I did what?”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and clouded with ghosts, her voice a whisper as the possibility became a certainty in her mind. “The Primrose.”
“The Primrose?” He shook his head, his voice dipping as his words slowed. “The Primrose?”
She nodded.
His gaze dipped to the tips of her boots just barely brushing the floorboards, the name of the Primrose on his lips again, even though he made no noise.
His look whipped up to her face. “The ship I was on—you were on. It was the Primrose and it was Redthorn’s ship that attacked it? I never saw their ship—didn’t know who it was.” His hand went to his face, rubbing his eyes. “No. Impossible.”
His fingers dropped away and his gaze pierced her. “Your eyes. That was…” He shook his head, then his hand whipped out, snatching the blue kerchief that wrapped the top of her head and he ripped it off.
Her braids fell free from the tight coil she’d had them wrapped in. Braids, for she’d long ago given up trying to keep her hair combed.
He stared at her hair, his mouth the only thing moving on his body. “Auburn hair. That was you? You were the one he took. The girl.”
It washed over her in that moment. Brutal and ferocious and without warning.
She wasn’t on the Red Dragon. Wasn’t part of a band of pirates. Was no longer a pirate bride.
She’d had a life once.
A real life she barely remembered. A life of silk and fine wine and bonnets and a mother that adored her. A dream of a life she’d lost long ago, until she’d begun to wonder if it had ever truly existed.
Her mind had played tricks with her on the long days at sea—days where she couldn’t remember who she was, where she’d come from. The sea undulating in front of her and it was the only thing she knew—the only thing she was. The sea.
But no, she’d once had something else. A life. A real life.
Until she’d had none.
Her look dropped to the floorboards and the room started spinning—a waterspout engulfing her—and she had to fight for balance on the bed.
The Heart of an Earl (A Box of Draupnir Novel Book 1) Page 2
