One me.
Five them.
The room was small and brown, with only the one opening. I assumed there was a door somewhere, but couldn’t see it. The figures crowded the room, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. It felt a little like an alien abduction scene from a movie, to be honest.
Wincing from the brightness, I nodded, touching my chin to my chest. “Thank you.”
“Snake Eyes. Is that your given name?” the Spanish man asked again.
“No. It’s . . . uh . . .” Scrambling for a fake identity, I kicked myself for getting caught. Of course, if some record book somewhere showed that a man named Snake Eyes had been hanged for piracy, it probably wouldn’t make anyone familiar with Mark Bell pause. “Ben,” I finally answered. “Ben Lowe.”
“Well, Señor Lowe. You stand to be convicted of piracy. How do you plead?”
Another thought grabbed hold of me and I straightened, wincing as my chest stretched with me. “Where’s Sammy? Is she okay?”
A hiss from one of the men in the rear of the room answered and I glared at him, trying to see his face but he was hidden behind the light.
“How do you plead?” Spanish Man’s tone demanded I answer him, but right then I was feeling rebellious. What did I have to lose, anyway?
“Where is Samantha?” I asked, louder.
“Shut up!” It was the same man who replied earlier. This time he moved closer as he spoke, someone putting out a hand to restrain him.
“Sam?” I yelled. “Sam!”
Angry Man moved forward and punched me in the jaw, making me see stars and yelp at the contact. He stepped away quickly, as if he knew he’d crossed some line, and I opened and closed my mouth, trying to make sure my jaw wasn’t broken.
“Order!” Spanish Man yelled, slamming his fist against the wall. “There will be order in this court!”
“Court?” Confused, I tried to glance between the five of them, my head still spinning. “This doesn’t look like any court to me.” Where was the crowd? Pirates were always tried and executed publicly, to discourage others from taking up the profession.
“Señor Lowe,” Spanish Man said, growing more impatient by the second. “Do you plead guilty to piracy?”
“Yes.” I ground the answer out, knowing I would be convicted either way. “Under the flag of Captain Thomas Randall. You didn’t happen to catch him, did you?”
All of the men in the room seemed to growl at that, their forms shifting dangerously in the light. I took that to mean no and laughed slightly, closing my eyes against the headache that was forming.
“Do you know where Thomas Randall is?” Spanish Man asked tightly.
“You didn’t get him? That sucks.” My body was threatening to pass out again and I let my head fall back, ignoring the outcry of fresh pain from my gunshot wound. They obviously didn’t want to listen to anything I had to say that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. Unfortunately, I had no idea where Thomas Randall was now.
The men conferred quietly with each other and I suddenly hoped that maybe I would just be shot and have it over with. That sounded better than torture, which I was beginning to think was a viable option for these guys. Remembering Sam, though, I sat up, trying to lean forward and look at them.
“Is Samantha okay? I don’t mind answering your questions, but I’m not saying anything else until I know where she is.”
“Ye’ll not be seeing her any more,” Angry Man spat. “Why would she want to, after what ye tried to do?”
“Huh?”
“You also stand accused of rape, Señor Lowe,” Spanish Man added, sounding particularly happy about it.
“What?” Outraged, I tried to shove my chair across the floor, wanting to stand up. “I would never!”
“One of our men walked in on you trying to force yourself on the lady,” Spanish Man informed me smoothly. “It was clear that she was a prisoner of the crew. You would argue with an eye witness?”
Aghast, I stared at them with an open mouth, trying to make out the faces that would accuse me of such a horrible thing.
“I wasn’t forcing myself on her! I love her!”
Angry Man jumped forward at that, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and yanking me off the floor, chair and all. For the first time, I saw his face; complete with the green eyes and hair that Sam had told me about so many times.
“That’s my wife ye’re talking about,” Tristan O’Rourke growled at me. “And if I were ye, I’d watch what ye say about her. Samantha is mine, no matter what ye claim.”
He was truly terrifying, suddenly making me see how he could have done all the things she swore he had. If I were Thomas Randall, I would have stayed as far away from him as possible—which was probably why my captain was nowhere to be found at the moment.
Tristan had a fierceness about him that practically shouted how he could kill anyone he wanted, and right now, that was me.
His face was covered with a short beard, eyes burning with rage, and I knew it was only his self-control that kept me alive at this moment.
“You’re him,” I said in awe, feeling both affronted and relieved at the same time. “Tristan.”
“Put him down, O’Rourke,” Spanish Man said, sighing unhappily.
Glowering, Tristan did as he was asked, stepping away from me.
“Señor Lowe—”
“My name is Mark,” I said, interrupting him. “And there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Tristan scoffed, folding his arms as he looked down at me.
“Yes. I’m not who you think I am.” Licking my lips, I tried to gather my thoughts coherently enough to explain before I passed out again.
“And who would that be?” His tone was belittling and infuriating, causing me to take a deep breath before I continued.
“A Black Knight,” I responded, knowing they would have already seen the brand on my arm. “But I promise, that’s not what I am. I’m like you—just not a Templar.”
“Like us?” Tristan leaned forward, smiling evilly. “Ye’re no better than the hair on a dog’s ass.”
Biting my tongue, I glared at him. Had he not talked to Sam? Hadn’t she told him who I was? “I was protecting Sam until you came,” I started, only to be interrupted by his laughter.
“I’m the one who saw ye kissin’ her, man. That’s not what I would call protection.”
The other men in the room just let him goad me. It was like they weren’t even there, his words biting and harsh as he spoke to me. As insulted as I felt and so incredibly angry, I pressed on, my voice only shaking slightly.
“I knew her from before she was taken,” I forced out. “We were friends.”
“Ye’re a liar!” Tristan yelled, getting in my face again. His patience for me was not very large, it would seem. “There’s hardly been a day that she hasn’t been with me since ye took her and carried her here! Who knows what ye did to her, aye? Tell me, so I can make sure the same happens to ye.” His eyes were burning dangerously, his hands clenching and releasing over and over, chest heaving as he stared at me, hate and disgust written across every feature. “Ye say ye know her, huh? How many times did ye beat her and rape her before ye felt comfortable saying that? Did ye pass her around like some toy, doing whatever ye wished? Ye love her? Ye don’t even know her, ye no good, pig shit, son of a bitch!”
I was done with this crap. Sam may have loved the jerk, but I sure didn’t.
“I’ve known her longer than you’ve even known she existed,” I spat out, leaning forward the best I could. “Before she drowned herself in the Treasure Pit and ended up stuck with you as her dirty, pirate, bastard of a husband!”
A shockwave coursed through the room and he visibly drew away, eyes wide and stunned. Smiling in satisfaction, I huffed a breath out of my nose and frowned.
Don’t do it, I told myself, fighting down the urge to poke the bear one more time. Don’t do it!
“And you know what?” I heard myself sayin
g, my lips curling into a grin, as I looked him in the eye. “I quite liked kissing her. She’s got very soft lips.”
His forehead met with mine in a sharp crack and I crumpled, watching the sun quickly fade away as the darkness took me into its cold embrace.
Samantha O’Rourke
The bed beneath me was soft and warm, calling for me to sink further into the dreamless sleep I’d been experiencing. Sighing, I rolled over, relishing in the feel of the silky shift I wore, the fabric brushing my skin like angel fingers.
Shift?
Freezing, I tried to think of what was going on. Where was I? What had happened last night? Then, like floodgates bursting open, the memories of the raid on the warehouse rushed through my mind, the image of Mark shot and bleeding under my hands standing out the strongest. He’d pulled me over with him when he fell, and I’d knocked my head on the ground, which was the last thing I remembered.
Opening my eyes hesitantly, I looked around the space, surprised to find the room nicely decorated and homey. Four posters and a canopy sat around me, a soft breeze blowing in from the open widow, the wooden shutters cracked a tiny bit to let the light in. Flowing curtains swayed gently, cocooning all around me. There was indeed a shift on my person, causing me some alarm as I thought of who might’ve changed my clothes.
Searching my memory, I saw his face, the smoking pistol still clutched in his hand. There was dismay in his features, his form rushing toward me in that tiny room.
“Tristan,” I uttered breathlessly sitting up and placing my feet on the cool, wooden floor. Suddenly, this place and my appearance made sense. He was here—he had finally come! Somewhere in this building, my husband was taking care of things, waiting for me to wake up and find him.
Standing, I swayed slightly, putting a hand to my sore head. Nothing was going to stop me from marching out and locating the man I’d been yearning for, though.
A sound at the entrance made me pause. The handle turned, the door sliding quietly across the floor, and he materialized in front of me, as if simply thinking of him had summoned him to my presence.
He was wearing black boots and pants, along with a white shirt, the neck untied and hanging open. Blood was stained across his chest, dry and dull in the morning light. A gun belt was still draped across one shoulder, his sword in the sheath at his waist. His hair, which had always seemed so nice and smooth to me, look frazzled, like he’d run his hands through it so many times that it now stood on end no matter what. His beard was short, but full; he hadn’t shaved in a while, it would seem.
All of this was secondary to his eyes, the green color shining with unshed tears as he looked at me, full of pain and anguish. Relief rolled off him as well, hitting me like a wall, and I could just see the past terror he’d been living in while we were apart.
“Samantha.” His voice cracked, lips trembling, and he shut the door, locking it behind himself.
Bursting into tears, I threw myself into his arms, holding him so tightly I worried I might’ve been suffocating him. Huge, gasping sobs overtook me, his hands pressed into my back, holding me off the ground as his face buried into the crook of my neck. His own cries were muted, soaking my slip, muffled against me.
“I was so worried ye were dead,” he said, fingers digging into me, refusing to let me move even an inch from him.
It didn’t matter; I never wanted to be anywhere else ever again.
“When I came back and ye were gone—” He broke off, a strangled sort of cry coming from his throat before he fell silent, simply holding me.
“I thought you might be dead,” I whispered. “You didn’t come back and no one would tell me what had happened. The day I decided to try and find out was the day they took me.”
“I walked into the house two days later.” Gently, he set me down, brushing his fingers over my cheek as he looked at me. “Ye can’t imagine what it was like, coming back to that. No one knew what had happened. I wanted to run them all through myself. How could something of that magnitude have occurred and no one realized?” A few tears still ran down his face, wetting his beard.
“I came as fast as I could, Sam, I swear. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect ye. Can ye ever forgive me?”
This brought fresh tears to my eyes and I buried my face in his chest, not even caring about the gore he still wore.
Instantly, the image of Mark, covered in blood, popped into my mind and I gasped, pulling away. “Where’s Mark? Is he okay?”
Unexpectedly, Tristan’s face grew dark, his expression turning dangerous as he stiffened. “He’s alive, if that’s what ye mean. Lomas is still holding him for questioning. There were . . . complications during his first interrogation.”
“Interrogation? Complications?” Confused, I stared into his eyes, not understanding the emotions I was seeing there.
“I knocked him out,” he said crisply, but his shoulders hunched slightly, like a child who knew they were about to be scolded. “The man provoked me,” he added quickly, a flicker of annoyance passing over his features. “But . . . I did the same to him first. I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t trust the bastard one bit.”
“Whoa.” Staring at him seriously, I took his hands in mine. “Bastard?”
“What else am I supposed to call a man who claims to love my wife, who I saw kissing ye? He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him again on the spot. If we hadn’t needed information, I would have happily taken care of him.” Tristan growled slightly, the fire returning to his eyes, and then he sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
“I wasn’t kissing him,” I replied, minimally irritated. “He caught me off guard. I had no idea he felt . . .” Letting my words trail off, I moved closer and wrapped my arms around his waist. “It didn’t mean anything, not to me. I’m sure he knows that, too.”
“As soon as he identified himself as another time traveler, Lomas ordered him into a safe room. Ye can see him later, even if I might not like it.” It wasn’t much of an acknowledgment of the situation, but it was something.
Exhaling, I took a moment to bask in his embrace once more, feeling like I was in a dream. We were finally together again! I’d always known he would come, but the waiting had nearly killed me.
“What happened in London, Tristan?” Curious, I stared at him, smiling in encouragement.
“There was a coup,” he replied, letting a long breath pass between his lips slowly. “One of the crew had been working for the Black Knights the entire time; he was an assistant to the Grand Master and knew everything. Some of the other men on board had joined the ranks with him and they all attacked before we even made landfall. By the time we got to London, we had men who desperately needed a doctor and Randall wasn’t where our information said he’d be.”
“Was one of the scouts secretly a Black Knight?” My stomach turned at the thought. How could there be so many of them among us and we not know? How were they communicating without getting caught?
“No. The rat had left before we could get there. It took two weeks just for us to recover enough to sail home, once we’d searched everywhere possible for the scoundrels.”
“And the traitors you caught?”
“They won’t be a problem any longer.”
Frowning, I knew what that meant. They were all dead, either killed during the coup or executed afterward. The Templars were insistent that the entire dark faction be destroyed.
“How are ye feeling?” he asked me, pulling me close once more and resting his chin on the top of my head as he changed the subject. “Sick? Is the baby doing well?”
Stilling, I felt my insides go cold with horror and dread. Of course he wouldn’t know—I’d been too early for a real baby bump to show. Mark would have been too busy defending himself to tell anyone that he’d helped me through a miscarriage. Tristan stood before me now, a man happy to have his wife and child safe in his arms, and I was going to have to tell him that his daughter hadn’t made it.
“Can we sit?” My voice sounded high and t
rembling.
“Of course!” Quickly, he led me to the bed, smiling as he joined me, grasping my fingers in his own.
How did I even start? What words could I use to explain how everything had happened? I wasn’t even ready to revisit the moment myself. What if I broke down and couldn’t do it? Gulping, I cleared my throat and looked at him, frowning.
“Tristan, I—” Tears welled in my eyes and I closed them, shaking my head, trying to shut out the anguish that fought to overtake me again. “Sorry,” I gasped, sniffling through the whole mess crashing around inside me.
“Oh, no.” The phrase was almost whispered, his hand tightening around mine. “Please, lass, tell me the babe is okay?”
“I lost it,” I said, opening my eyes and staring at him. “I don’t know if it was something I did, or Randall and his men. I’m so sorry, Tristan. Truly. I wish—I don’t know—I can’t . . .”
Crying, I let him pull me into his embrace, his hand smoothing my hair as I wept against him once more. Not a word came from him, but I could feel the slight tremor to his touch, murmuring to me of the pain he felt.
“And ye’re okay?” he finally asked, his voice husky. “Ye’ve recovered, I mean? There’s nothing to worry about with ye?”
“I’m doing alright,” I confirmed. “Or at least as well as I can, given the circumstances.”
He sighed, relaxing some, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
“She was beautiful. I named her Rachel Dawn.”
“After my mother?” He sounded surprised, the grief in his voice doubling. I knew it wasn’t because he was upset over the name—he was touched.
“And mine.”
We fell silent, simply content with holding each other for a time, allowing our combined presence to strengthen and uplift us. When my tears finally stopped falling, he laid us back across the mattress, his arm around my shoulders, holding me close to his heart.
“What did she look like?” he asked quietly, turning to watch me. “A normal child, but smaller?”
Carried Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Two) Page 27
