The Pirate Bride

by Shannon Drake

  He heard her when she came racing up behind him.

  “You knew?” she repeated furiously.

  “Of course,” he said, moving into the shade of the palm trees.

  “From the beginning?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” he said. It wasn’t a complete lie.

  She caught hold of his shirt, spinning him around. “That first day on the ship. The first day. When you fought me and slashed my cheek. You knew then?”

  “Yes.” Well, he’d known something wasn’t quite right.

  “Bastard!”

  The word stunned him. He stood dead still and stared at her coldly.

  “You chose to fight, and you fought like a hellion,” he reminded her.

  It didn’t help the situation.

  “Bastard,” she repeated.

  He shrugged, walked on, then turned back. “Look, we need to find water and—”

  To his amazement, she charged him. And to his deep humiliation, he wasn’t prepared. He went over backward, with her on top of him, her fists pummeling wildly. Luckily for him, she was so furious that she wasn’t being her usual cool and calculating self, and her energy was quickly spent as he went for her flailing arms, trying to avert serious physical harm.

  “Of all the despicable, horrid, obnoxious, wretched men in the universe…!”

  She stopped raging at him only because she ran out of breath. He took advantage of the moment to gain the edge, clutching her arms and rolling her over so that he was on top, straddling her and pinning her to the sand.

  She never stopped thinking, planning, conniving. He could see it in her eyes. Knowing she was wasting her efforts, she went dead still and stared up at him with twin blue beacons of blazing fury. She seemed beaten, but he knew her better.

  She was just waiting for a hint of weakness, of vulnerability, on his part. He wasn’t going to give it.

  “I’m despicable? Because you’re playing such a dangerous game?”

  Her eyes narrowed with an ever greater anger. “This is no game,” she assured him.

  “You are no pirate.”

  To his amazement, her anger seemed to fade, but her demeanor was still icy. “I’m afraid that I am very much a pirate.”

  “The great and fearsome Red Robert?” he mocked.

  “I took down Black Luke,” she reminded him.

  “I heard about that—all about that.”

  Her eyes widened then, and she cursed.

  Like a pirate.

  “Which one of those demented idiots told you…anything?” she demanded.

  He had to hand it to her. One would have thought she was the one wielding the power.

  “The cat sang,” he told her.

  She cursed again and struggled then.

  “Stop it!” he told her. “Stop fighting and listen to me. You are amazing and incredible. What you did…it was foolhardy, but it was also brilliant and valiant, and you saved yourself and a lot of men. But…do you know what will happen eventually?” he asked softly.

  “I cannot come to a worse end than what was intended for me.”

  He couldn’t help but grin, and he relaxed back on his haunches, still wary that she might fly into another rage and attack, and then grew serious. “But you can stop now,” he assured her. “The wretched woman who held your indenture papers is dead.”

  She stared back at him without comment.

  “You can live an…an honest life.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late. I can’t turn back.”

  “You could work for me,” he said.

  “As what? Your scullery maid?” she asked, and her fists started flying again.

  “I didn’t say that,” he told her.

  “Oh, I should perhaps be your mistress? Or merely your whore?”

  “Never. I intend to honor the woman I marry.”

  She went still, staring at him. For a moment he thought there was a sheen of dampness—maybe even tears?—in her eyes.

  Then she struck out at him again, and it was all he could do to stop her.

  “Bobbie!” he said. The name he’d heard Brendan use with such affection came easily to his lips. “For the love of God, I don’t want to see you at the end of a hangman’s noose. Or at the mercy of such a man as Blair Colm.”

  She went dead still.

  What was it about Blair Colm that upset her so? he wondered.

  Had she already been at his mercy?

  But she was alive….

  “I am what I am,” she said primly. “And that is a pirate. And now, if you would get off me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  He slowly relaxed, but he didn’t let go of her wrists.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Are you going to hit me again?”

  “You’re worried that I’m going to hit you again? You sound like a little girl,” she snapped.

  He laughed.

  “So are you going to hit me again?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “No.”

  “Promise?”

  “Pirate’s honor,” she said with aggravation.

  “Then…” He leapt up, then reached down for her hand. She eyed his offering suspiciously, then accepted and let him help her to her feet. They were both still damp and sand-encrusted, but she was definitely different from the Captain Red Robert he had come to know. It was easy to see why she had come by the name. With the black wig gone, her own hair—even sea-tossed and salt-covered—was beautiful. It was a rich color, not as dark as Brendan’s, but red and gold and still somehow deep and lustrous. Definitely unusual. He found himself imagining it clean and dry and cascading softly down her back in sunlight—or the moon’s glow.

  She cleared her throat.

  “Water,” she said. “We need to find water.”

  “Yes. Have you been shipwrecked before?” he asked.

  “No. Have you?”

  “No.”

  She smiled suddenly. “I have careened my ship in places similar to this, though.”

  “That’s good. You won’t be afraid.”

  “Afraid? Why would I be afraid?”

  “Everyone is afraid of something.”

  “And what are you afraid of?” she asked him.

  “Oh, I’m not so brave, really. I’m afraid of shot, swords, cannons…and of dying before making my mark on the world.”

  He had spoken lightly, but with the last words he had taken on an air of gravity. She studied him, frowning with concern.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I guess that’s what I’m afraid of, too,” she said.

  “Cannon, shot and steel blades?” he queried.

  “No. Well, I’d rather not be injured or lose a limb,” she agreed. “But…it was the other. I just don’t want to die before I’ve…”

  “Really lived?”

  “Well, that all depends on what you mean by ‘living.’”

  “Let’s get on with this search for water, then we can discuss philosophy,” he said. “Come on.”

  He led the way through the thick underbrush. If there were any trails through it, they were overgrown and long unused.

  “What makes you think you can find water?” she called after him.

  “Look around you.”

  “It does rain in the Caribbean,” she reminded him.

  “Do you have something better to do?”

  “Maybe?”

  “And that would be…?”

  “We could build a fire on the beach, so my crew can find us,” she said.

  He was silent. Despite what he’d said earlier, there was no guarantee her crew had survived, and they both knew it.

  “Okay, another ship,” she said.

  The idea made him uneasy. He wasn’t sure why. Even if a merchantman were to find them, he wasn’t a pirate, and with her red hair and bedraggled beauty, she would never be taken for the infamous Red Robert. Still, he was uneasy about the possibility of rescue.<
br />
  Maybe it was because they were almost certainly in a pirate alley. Any ship that came upon them would probably be a pirate ship. And most pirate captains would either think his plight was amusing and leave him stranded or put him to work on their own ship. Or maybe just decide he should be slain on the spot.

  The pirate code stated that no decent woman should be taken against her will. Female captives were usually ransomed. But the rules were not hard and fast. Red could be in serious trouble if they were discovered by the wrong ship.

  And building a fire might bring the wrong kind of rescue.

  And yet, what other option was there?

  As they headed deeper into the brush, the going became harder. There were roots to trip over, and pebbles and rocks to cut their feet. The palm fronds grew low and thick. There were several varieties of palms, sea grape trees, fruit trees bearing what looked like little green limes and others apparently bearing figs, and more. The limes were a blessing, he thought. And there had to be a fresh water spring somewhere on the island.

  “There!” he said suddenly, pointing.

  He had broken through a grove of tall palms at the top of a small hill. And as he peered between the trunks, he could see a waterfall.

  She crashed into his back, stumbling over one of the roots breaking through the thin layer of soil.

  “It’s…it’s beautiful,” she said.

  Logan calculated they had come about half a mile from the beach. He didn’t see any signs that the island was inhabited, but he had to wonder why. It offered the most important element of life—water. And there was enough real soil for vegetation to grow.

  She pushed by him, eager to reach the water.

  “Wait!”

  She had fallen to her knees at the water’s edge, but now she hesitated, water dripping from her cupped hands.

  “Allow me,” he said, walking up beside her. “The official taster, you know.”

  Despite his thirst, he only dabbed the water to his lips at first. It was sweet and clear. He sipped.

  She was staring at him. He smiled. “Seems safe.”

  She drank. Then she sluiced water over her face, relishing the clean feel, before she drank again. He found himself watching her, relishing the delight she found in the fresh, cool sensation and the way she cast her head back to delight in the water pouring over her.

  “It’s a taste of heaven,” she said.

  Aye, a taste of heaven, he thought. Stranded he might be, but with clean, clear drinking water—and with her.

  He rose and looked around.

  “We should head back to the beach,” he said.

  “What? We just got here.”

  “And now that we’ve found water, we need to build a shelter.”

  She stared at him blankly for a moment, as if finally comprehending for the first time that they could be on this island for weeks, even months.

  Or more.

  Without a word, she turned around and started walking ahead of him toward the shore. He could hear her suck in her breath now and then, when she stepped on something hard or sharp.

  Shoes would be nice, he thought. And a good strong knife or sword would be even better. He reached toward his calf, but in vain; he had lost his knife when he had cast off his boots.

  Despite the pain to her delicate soles, she moved quickly. He kept close behind her.

  She passed by a palm and held the branch out of her way; then it smacked him squarely in the face as he passed.

  “Hey!” he yelled.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly.

  But he could tell from her tone that she wasn’t sorry at all. He wondered if she had let the branch snap back on purpose.

  She reached the shore first and stood there, staring out at the waves. Just as there was often a calm before a storm, there was often one afterward, as well.

  The world seemed to have been swept clean. The sea was like liquid glass, reflecting the glory of the sun. The sky was a soft blue, not a cloud to be seen. The roll of the surf against the sand was still like a sweet and pleasant whisper.

  “I’ll retrieve the barrel,” he said. “The wood will be useful, and there might be something edible inside.”

  She followed more slowly as he strode down the beach toward the barrel that had saved their lives, then cried out suddenly, stumbling to her knees.

  He turned back.

  “What?” he asked in concern.

  “Nothing!”

  He walked back toward her anyway. She was sitting on the sand, holding her foot.

  “Did you cut it?”

  “I stepped on a shell.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be such a…girl,” he told her.

  She cast him a dangerous glare, but she didn’t say anything.

  Hunkering down before her, he caught her wrist and moved her hand out of the way. Her foot was bleeding, but there was so much sand caked to her skin that he couldn’t see how bad the gash might be.

  “I’m all right,” she said stiffly, pushing him away and starting to rise. Then she staggered slightly, and he rose quickly and lifted her into his arms, much to her indignation.

  “Put me down!” she demanded.

  He ignored her.

  “Do what I tell you,” she insisted. “I am the captain.”

  “You were a captain. So was I.”

  “I was captain last,” she said irritably.

  He ignored her, striding toward the water. She was an easy burden, despite the fact that she was stiff and totally uncooperative.

  She slammed a fist against his chest.

  “Hey! You promised not to hit me.”

  “I told you to put me down.”

  He had reached the water, and he was tempted.

  “Damn you, Logan!”

  He dropped her.

  She went under, then came up quickly, sputtering and furious. She slapped at the hand he offered her. But when she staggered again, he caught hold of her anyway, to keep her from falling.

  “We had to wash your foot,” he explained.

  Half standing, accepting his support to remain upright, she gave him her evil stare once again. “I’m soaked.”

  “You’re the one who believes in bathing,” he pointed out dryly.

  “I thought you were concerned about my foot?”

  “Actually, I am. An infection here could be serious. And saltwater will clean it and help heal it.”

  “So I needed an entire bath in saltwater…for my foot?”

  He shrugged, picked her up again and headed the few feet to the beach. She swore, but he ignored her as he set her down easily and knelt at her side, taking her foot in his hand again. There was a slash right across her instep. He was grateful to notice that it didn’t appear to be deep.

  “Just a lot of blood, I think,” he said lightly.

  “It hurts,” she admitted.

  “Just sit here and let it soak in the waves for a few minutes,” he told her as he ripped off a long strip of his bedraggled shirt. “Then we can wrap it up.” His voice had grown husky. It was touching her that did it, he thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have dropped her in the water. Her clothing was plastered to her body again, hugging her in a way that emphasized every perfect curve. The white cotton seemed to do more enhancing than concealing.

  He stood quickly. He needed to get some distance from her.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, frowning.

  “Down the beach to get the barrel and do some exploring,” he said lightly. “Who knows what treasures may lurk just around the bend? I’m sure we weren’t the only ship caught up in that storm.”

  He left her, curious to see what might be in the barrel that had saved their lives.

  Reaching it didn’t help much. He had nothing with which to lever it open. The ship’s cooper did an excellent job of sealing his creations, which helped preserve necessities on the ship. But now…

  He managed to read the letters that h
ad been burned into the side and realized that they had a barrel of rum—about a third full, judging by the weight, which had left enough room for the air that had made the barrel float and ensured their salvation.

  Now he just needed tools to open it.

  He looked back down the beach. Red was staring out at the sea. Her foot was in the water, though. The waves were inching up and crashing gently against the length of her slightly bent legs, and she’d folded her arms atop them. She looked like a mermaid cast up from the sea, not a far cry from the truth.

  He stepped away from the annoying puzzle of the barrel and looked farther down the beach, where he saw numerous pieces of broken plank.

  He hoped they weren’t from the Eagle, and that Brendan, Peg-leg, Silent Sam, Hagar, Jimmy O’Hara and the rest were safe and figuring out how to rescue Red.

  He started piling up the wood, mentally assembling the pieces into a shelter. His heart sank as he moved along; it was becoming obvious that at least one poor ship had broken up in the heavy winds and lashing waves of the storm.

  He was definitely acquiring enough lumber.

  After about a hundred yards, he came upon a large cargo chest. He stooped to examine it, then swore when he discovered that it was locked.

  He found a thick rock and began slamming away at the padlock. When it was clear that he would never break the lock, he changed tactics and smashed in the lid of the chest, instead, then looked inside.

  The chest had been well-built, with a strong seal that had kept out the ocean. The chest was filled with clothing, not the tools he would have preferred, and he saw breeches, bodices, skirts, dresses, silks, satins and lace. There were shoes and stockings, even jeweled brooches and collar pins.

  He sat back on his heels, feeling relieved. He was certain that this haul had not come from their ship.

  He was sorry, though, because he was certain an innocent merchantman had been destroyed in the storm, and the owners of the finery before him were now resting somewhere at the bottom of the sea, food for the fish.

  He stood and looked out to sea. More and more refuse was bobbing on the waves, washing up toward the shore. He ventured out to see what was coming his way.

  Lots and lots of timbers, some with swatches of canvas sail and rigging caught around them. The rigging would be helpful in building, he thought.