Pirate's Wraith, The

by Penelope Marzec

  When she bent down, she gasped. Inside the opening, she saw Harlan surrounded by several large rocks and as still as death.

  Chapter Sixteen

  While dawn advanced on the horizon, Harlan stared in horror at the blackened shell that had been his home. Cold sweat soaked him as the December wind sliced through him. Had Josiah and Elsbeth escaped the flames? Or had fate dealt him another cruel blow?

  Shaking, he spun around and headed for the tavern. Philip, the tavern owner, would have the answers he feared to hear. He stumbled into the taproom and slid into a seat by the fire. The only other occupant of the room was a dog next to the hearth. The dog opened his eyes, peered at him with curiosity and went back to sleep.

  Harlan put his head in his hands. Still reeling with shock, he did not know what to do. Could he handle the truth?

  “What’ll it be, sailor?” A man stepped into the room and called to him. Harlan glanced up but did not recognize the fellow.

  “Where’s Philip?” He could barely form the words with emotion clogging his throat.

  “Dead. His horse threw him and broke his neck.”

  The news compounded Harlan’s misery. He rubbed his eyes as if he could erase the image of his ruined home.

  “What’ll you be having?” The new tavern owner asked with some asperity.

  “Whiskey.” Harlan could not move. He did not think his legs would carry him.

  “’Tis early for strong spirits.”

  “Damn it, man. I am Harlan Sterford.” He tossed the coins on the table beside him.

  Silence followed until the tavern owner set the whiskey down on the table and snatched the coins. “The smithy took her in.”

  Harlan’s heart leaped.

  “She’s taken ill.” The tavern owner studied the coins in his hand. “The boy died two weeks ago.”

  Harlan grabbed the whiskey and downed it in one gulp. “Another.”

  Josiah dead? No, that had to be a mistake. His son was a sturdy boy.

  Another shot of whiskey did not alleviate the gnawing in his gut, but it did take the edge off his fear.

  He stumbled out of the tavern and walked to the far end of town where the smoke curled out of the blacksmith’s shop. The door stood open, as it usually did and Harlan walked in, but he did not see the smithy. A lad of about fourteen stood with a hammer tapping at a red hot iron.

  “Are you needing something, sir?” he asked without looking up.

  “My wife, Mistress Sterford.”

  The lad’s head jerked up and his eyes went wide. “Are you ... are you ‘er dead ‘usband?”

  “Is that what she said?” Harlan lunged at the lad, but the youngster dropped the hot iron into a bucket of water and ran. A great hiss of steam rose up from the water. Harlan stared at it as it formed the figure of a boy, his boy—Josiah.

  “Papa.” Wispy arms beckoned and Harlan moved to embrace the vaporous figure, but the elusive steam scattered in his arms.

  He sank down upon the earthen floor of the blacksmith shop and wept.

  * * * *

  Lesley used her shirt to dab away the tears rolling down Harlan’s face. Her hands shook knowing he must be in terrible pain. She did not move him for she had no way of knowing the extent of his injuries.

  “Please wake up,” she whispered. “Please, please don’t leave me here alone.” Her throat ached and tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back. If she started crying now she might never stop.

  The small horse continued to glow like a lantern. Without it she would never have found Harlan.

  She smoothed her hand over his brow and memorized every line in his face. “Please tell me where you’re hurting. Please open your eyes,” she begged softly.

  “Josiah ....” His voice came out as a harsh croak.

  “Are you dreaming of your son?” She placed her hand over his heart. The beat came strong and regular.

  “My son is gone ....”

  “I am very sorry. He was a sweet child.” She had held little Josiah and kissed him as if he were her own.

  “Elsbeth.” He growled. “I am alive.”

  “I am Lesley.”

  “I am not dead!” He shouted.

  Prickles of fear rose on her skin as the echoes of his shout reverberated in the huge cave. “Please open your eyes, Harlan.”

  “How could you not know my heart still beats?”

  What if the Spaniards heard him?

  She put two fingers against his mouth. “Hush. You’ve had a bad dream.” She bent low to whisper in his ear.

  “I loved you!” He called out. “With all my soul. But you let Josiah die.”

  Lesley covered his mouth with her hand. “Please—stop. Wake up, Harlan. Open your eyes.”

  Though his eyes remained closed, he pulled her hand away and opened his mouth.

  Fearing that he would scream again at the top of his lungs, she covered his lips with her own and plunged into the dark, damp recess with her tongue.

  It was like diving into a hot whirlpool. She went under as his tongue danced with hers and his arms locked her against him. She forgot about the bats, the crumbling cave and even the Spaniards. The desire she had tamped down over and over again roared over her like a rogue wave.

  She had to come up for air and when she did, she found him staring at her with his pale blue eyes.

  “What are you doing?” he asked softly.

  “You were shouting at the top of your lungs. I had to stop you.”

  “With a kiss?”

  “It worked.” She wanted to keep doing it. She wanted to strip off her clothes and worship every inch of him, including that cannon in his britches. Most of all that cannon.

  “I want to have sex with you before I die.” Her hands moved downward to the buttons on his britches.

  He grabbed her hands and held them fast. “You thought I had the French disease.”

  “Hell. You probably do, but if I’m going to die it doesn’t matter.”

  “We will not die.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve been unconscious. Have you considered the fact that parts of you might be broken?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Move over.”

  She sighed. “I guess I’m going to die without ever enjoying one moment of bliss.”

  “Woman, you are mad.”

  She found herself gently lifted and moved to the side. She watched as he wiggled his feet, moved his knees, and turned his head.

  He turned over. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “How?”

  “Follow me, but first blow out that damned light.” He rose to his knees and turned around in the cramped space.

  She held the horse tightly against her chest and stroked it. The warmth emanating from it soothed her nerves. Without it, she would still be huddled in fear in that alcove and contemplating suicide. She would never have escaped. She would never have found Harlan.

  “This horse directed me to you.”

  “Sorcery.”

  “You carved it.”

  “The witch infused it with her magic.”

  “It’s really awesome magic.”

  “Blow it out.”

  She shrugged and blew on the small horse. It grew brighter. “Blowing doesn’t work.”

  He snatched it from her and stuffed it into his pocket.

  She whimpered. “I’m developing a severe case of nyctophobia.”

  “Bibble—“

  “I’m afraid of the dark,” she interrupted.

  “The darkness will hide us from our enemies.”

  “In the meantime, spiders might bite us, rats nibble at our toes, snakes could sink their fangs into us...”

  “Hold onto my ankle.”

  She groped around for his foot in the dark.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind about having sex here before we die?”

  “I am thirsty.” He moved along the narrow tunnel. She crawled behind him. Rocks and small boulders in the tunnel slowed th
eir progress. Lesley acquired more bruises and scrapes.

  “Damn.” She grumbled as she bumped into a sharp rock sticking out of the tunnel wall. “I don’t suppose dermatologists have been invented yet.”

  “B—”

  “That’s a special doctor who heals skin.” She informed him. “If I had to go backward in time, why couldn’t I have come with a dictionary.”

  Soon the air in the cave freshened. The aroma of the sea and the sweet smell of damp earth filled her with delight.

  Of course, she enjoyed Harlan’s pheromones a lot, too. Nevertheless, she could use a drink of water herself and she was hungry enough to eat even a rat.

  By the time they reached the end of the tunnel, the sun had slipped into the sea and the sky above glowed in tones of deep rose, lavender, and slate. If Lesley had her cell phone with her, she would have taken a picture.

  “We missed a whole day,” she whispered.

  “We slept for much of it.”

  “I suppose. I don’t even know what day it is anymore. Do you?”

  “I have no log book in which to record the days.”

  “So we are both clueless. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Watch the ledge. It is narrow.” He warned.

  She crawled behind him and then around a thick bush. They came out onto a ledge no more than two feet wide with a forty-five degree incline. It narrowed to less than a foot in width at the end, which was still about twelve feet above the jungle floor.

  “How do we get down without breaking any legs?”

  “I will rip my shirt.”

  She smiled. “Nice. I get to see your chest again.”

  He lifted his brows. “It has scars.”

  “But it’s ripped.”

  “It is not ripped.”

  “Okay, chiseled.”

  “Bibble-babble.” He grumbled as he removed his jacket.

  She laughed.

  “Shhh,” he warned. “The Spaniards are salvaging the wreck.”

  “Damn.” She whispered. Would there never be an end to this literal living on the edge?

  It grew darker and they could barely see what they were doing. However, the art of making square knots, which Lesley had learned at camp, garnered praise from Harlan.

  A disturbing sound caught her attention. Was it the wind? She glanced at the cave entrance as a massive black wave of creatures flew out.

  Horrified, she opened her mouth to scream, but Harlan pressed her down on the ledge and covered her with his body.

  “They will be gone in a moment.”

  The touch of his lips against her ear sent a tingle of pleasure straight to her core and having the warmth of his body on top of hers had her ready to melt. The hum that always accompanied his touch on her skin grew toward a crescendo. She forgot about the bats. She forgot about the Spaniards and her precarious position on the ledge. She sought his mouth and kissed him.

  He growled low in his throat, but he did not pull away. The way he deepened the kiss had her seeing stars, which were not in the heavens but the lights of explosive sparks of passion in her body.

  When he came up for air, she moaned. “Don’t stop now.”

  “Dammit, woman.” He went back to tying his shirt into a makeshift rope.

  Lesley wanted to strip off her raggedy clothes and continue attacking him, but the bats had all fluttered off. Sighing, she sat up and knotted more pieces of Harlan’s shirt together. They would faint from hunger if they didn’t get something to eat and drink.

  When they ran out of cloth strips, Harlan deemed it time to use the flimsy excuse for a rope. He tied one end to the base of the bush near the cave’s mouth. Then he slid over the ledge and rappelled downward. Before he reached the bottom the cloth broke, sliced in two by the sharp edge of the ledge.

  She heard him fall, but she could not see him in the darkness. She leaned over the edge of the ledge. “Are you okay?”

  “Jump.” He whispered back.

  Her blood pooled in her feet. Could she trust him to catch her? She tossed her makeshift crutch to him first. She didn’t hear it crash so she assumed he caught it, but she weighed far more than a piece of wood.

  She sat on the edge, took a deep breath, and wondered if there was another way to do this. A bat flew out of the cave, slid past her head, and touched her hair.

  She jumped. He caught her as if she weighed no more than a bale of hay.

  “Good.” He whispered and gave her a brief kiss. He stood her on her feet and she swayed. She could not tell if the touch of his lips on hers made her drunk with desire or if she had become dizzy from her fast descent. He handed her the crutch, hoisted her on his back, and set off.

  She had no idea where they were or where they were headed and she wondered how he could tell. The jungle lay pitch black in the night. He moved like a beast stalking its prey. She felt the pounding of his heart and her own. Their breathing sounded harsh in the gloom. The situation could have been sexually stimulating but the constant screaming of animals in the dense tropical underbrush set her nerves on edge. If they did not run into some hungry beast, they could stumble upon their enemies. They had only knives for defense but the Spaniards had guns. It would not be a fair fight.

  It would be slaughter.

  At last, she heard the gurgling of a stream. Soon they were both gulping down gallons of cold water and she didn’t care about the number of malignant microorganisms in the water. It tasted better than any glass of champagne she had ever sampled.

  From there, they wandered to the area where the wild plums grew and gorged themselves on the fruit. She did not know what time it was, though it had to be rather late. However, she remained wide-awake and keyed-up listening to every sound.

  “Most of the Spaniards will be asleep, but there will be some on watch,” he whispered. “I will kill the guards and take one of their boats.”

  “Can’t we just hide and wait for them to leave the island?”

  “I will not wait.”

  “Killing is murder.”

  “There is no choice.”

  “Yes, there is. You can knock them out. Hit them on the head or in the solar plexus.”

  “Where is that?”

  “A bit above the gut. Here.” She pointed to the center of her upper abdomen. “You knock them out. I’ll tie them up.”

  “We have no rope.”

  “Hmmm. I suppose duct tape hasn’t been invented yet.” Living so close to the end of the Dark Ages caused an inordinate amount of problems.

  “There will be rope in the boats,” he grumbled. “I can cut it with my knife, but it would be easier to cut their throats.”

  She nearly gagged. “That is horrible. You sound like a vicious, cold-blooded killer.”

  “They will kill us if they get the chance.”

  “Maybe they would be willing to negotiate.”

  “They are Spaniards.”

  “I can speak a little Spanish.”

  “You cannot speak the King’s English.”

  “I speak American English, which is just as good.”

  “That will not help us.”

  She ran her hand along his thigh and nearly swooned with delight at his hard muscles. “We could tear up your britches and use the strips of cloth for rope.”

  “No.” He growled.

  She laughed.

  “If I don’t hit them hard enough, they will wake up and shout.” He complained.

  “I’ll gag them with your scarf and mine.”

  “We will need our scarves for the journey.”

  “Okay. We can use their scarves, once you knock them out. Although, it would be a whole lot easier to wait until they leave and then build another raft.”

  “They have food. We will take that along with the boat.”

  “What if they come after us?”

  “If we are quiet, they will not notice anything amiss until dawn. By then, with a good wind, we could be miles from here.”

  “You don’t
know where we are now. How will you know which way to steer out in the ocean?”

  “This time of year, the westerlies should carry us toward New Providence.”

  “I’d rather go back to New Jersey.”

  “Impractical.”

  “Figures.” Why did she have to wind up with a pirate? If going back in time was inevitable, why couldn’t she have landed on a farm? Though she didn’t think there could ever be a farmer quite as magnificent as Harlan.

  “They are camped on the beach south of the wreck. They drag whatever they can salvage from the wreck to the camp and then ferry it to the ship.”

  “Are you sure about this? You did get clobbered by some rocks. That may have affected your judgment.”

  She heard his deep, exasperated sigh.

  “It may be bibble-babble to you, but the fact of the matter is that you could have a brain injury.” She reached up to pat his head. “Your brain could have been shaken.”

  He took her hand in his and the wonder of his touch set her whole body swirling with that special hum.

  “If my brain has been shaken, it is your fault.”

  She could see the gleam of his teeth despite the murky darkness all about. He smiled and her heart danced. Dammit.

  * * * *

  Harlan recognized the biggest risk factor in his plan was Lesley. Stealing a boat and getting himself off the island presented some difficulties, but including her put his plan in jeopardy. Worse, he agreed not to kill the sentries.

  Women had such annoying sensibilities.

  He would not have any difficulty rendering the men unconscious, but any noise—no matter how slight—increased the danger.

  He must succeed for he knew what the Spaniards would do to Lesley. He had seen the death, ruin and destruction left in the aftermath of a Spanish raid.

  The camp lay in a small bay edged by a rock-covered spit of land. He and Lesley hid behind the rocks, while he assessed the situation. The most significant danger came from the ship at anchor in the bay where men would be on watch and if they spied the boat leaving the shore, a chase would ensue. However, as long as the sky remained dark, he and Lesley had an important advantage.

  “Thirty feet from here there are two dark shapes at the water’s edge. Those are two boats. We will take the one nearest this spot.”