She wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand, but nothing could take away the bitter taste. Feeling soiled and filthy, she slowly drew the tattered remains of that godforsaken dress off, threw it over the cooling body, and jerked on her shirts and pants. She rubbed her arms, chilled to the bone—it didn’t help.
Come on, Marie, we aren’t out of the woods yet!
Steeling herself, she approached the body and retrieved the blade. She eyed the door—there was no way in knowing what lay on the other side. There might be no one, there might be a hundred men. That left her with only one option. Her gaze swivelled to the window and, squaring her slim shoulders, she made her way towards it, undoing the latch. It swung open, and the cool night breeze slapped her in the face. It steadied her and her hands ceased trembling. She needed that; she had to have her wits about her. She hopped up onto the ledge and searched for her next handhold. Marie gripped the groove with her toes; she clung to the edge and slowly but surely worked her way around the side of the ship to the nearest gun port. The cool breeze tangling in her hair, the loose tendrils tickling her face, the pressure digging into her toes and fingers was becoming close to unbearable. She clung to her precarious perch outside of the gun port, holding her breath—the sharp footsteps of the sentry passed above her. Marie’s muscle’s locked, and she didn’t dare draw a breath. Her limbs shaking, she feared losing her grip. The heel clicks upon wood moved farther and farther in the opposite direction, and she released that pent-up breath with a soft wheeze. By shifting her position, the strain on her muscles lessened, and she peeked through the crack between the porthole and cover—it appeared that the coast was clear.
She eased the cover up, her muscles trembling for control, protesting at their recent abuse, and slipped inside the ship feetfirst. She clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, the edge scraping the skin off the length of her back, but with the dexterity of a cat, Marie landed on silent paws and remained motionless. Crouched in the shadow of the nine-pound gun, she sent her hearing out. When there was not a sound, she sank down, her stinging back supported by the wall. That had been the easy part. Though out of that cabin, she still had to release the men in the brig unseen, but she would take those odds. She knew this ship, she had played upon it as a child, the boltholes and dark corners that could hide a small person. But her caution appeared to be unneeded, for, slinking from hiding place to hiding place, she met nary a soul. It appeared that Pulleine in his arrogance had left nothing but a skeleton crew to man the vessel until the Navy came for the prisoners.
She inched closer to the brig and peered around the corner before ducking back. There was a lone sentry on guard. Her heart rate sped up and thundered, the sound must surely give her away, and she considered her options. She had to take him out without raising the alarm, and the only cover in the open space was a large barrel. Marie was seriously reconsidering liking these odds, but it was too late to turn back, and they were running out of time. She drew her blade free and eased forward, keeping low to the deck.
The men stirred behind the bars, and Marie dragged her mouth down—the fools were going to give her away. The sentry, disturbed by the activity in the cell, turned towards her, and she ducked behind a barrel.
“You scurvy, pox-ridden bastard, let us out, and we will give you a real fight!”
The beautiful curse words were music to her ears. They were making a distraction, giving her an opening. She crept behind him, her weight on the pads of her feet. Grayling clenched the bars and caught her eye. The crew held their collective breath. The sentry didn’t seem to hear her, too intent on pointing the musket at the prisoners and telling them to pipe down or else. She moved without hesitation and, wrapping a hand over his mouth, plunged the dagger between the third and fourth rib, straight into the heart. There was a moment of struggle, his brain lagging with the death blow dealt to his body, then he went limp. Marie staggered under the dead weight and lowered him to the floor. She wiped the bloodied blade on the corpse’s trousers with a shaking hand and scooped up the keys from his belt. Each key in turn was feverishly slotted into the lock, one by one, until it clicked.
“Good work, girl,” Grayling acknowledged, pushing the door open, wincing at the high-pitched creak of the hinges. “Gaspar, keep watch.”
A slight, wiry man with sandy-coloured hair moved past and to his ordered post.
“Where’s Jack?” she demanded immediately.
Grayling froze, catching sight of her face, and his usual blue eyes turned stormy. “He hurt you, lass?”
Marie’s cheeks burned. No matter what she said, they would assume the worst. Instead, she licked her lips, and that action stung like the devil. It steeled her resolved. “Where is Jack?” she repeated.
“Towards the back—”
She didn’t listen to the rest and plunged into the crowd of men, pushing her way through, frantically scanning for one face. She found him chained to the wall, the only one they’d bothered to shackle. Pulleine was determined that his true prize would not escape. Jack hung limply in his bonds. His shirt was ripped, his face a mass of swelling bruises—they had done a job on him. An inarticulate cry dying in her throat, Marie elbowed her way to his side.
“Oh, mon grand.” She swept her hand over the dark bruises spreading over his chest and stomach, her voice turning thick with unshed tears. “What have they done to you?”
“Marie?” The word was weak and reedy.
The thought galvanised her into action, and she undid the shackles, inserting the key and twisting. The lock groaned.
“I’m here, mon grand,” she reassured him, working fast. “I’m here.”
“What are…?” He began to wheeze, only to be interrupted with a hacking cough, his sides shuddering in pain at the forced movement, and if possible, his face paled even more.
“Saving your misbegotten hide!” she hissed, the last lock popping free. She almost didn’t catch him in time. The weight of his hard, wiry body forced her knees to bend until other members of the crew rushed forward and caught Jack under his arms.
“Stubborn lassie,” he gritted out and, his face creased with pain, he straightened gingerly to his full height.
Marie snorted, and a pain stabbed through her—he was only just realising this now?
“I swear you willna sit for a week.”
Despite the situation, she snorted. “You can try, mon grand, but I think my derrière is safe for the time being.”
Several of the crew who were standing close enough to overhear their exchange chuckled, and the corner of Jack’s mouth twitched.
He just raised a brow in her direction, a look that said she would pay for that comment later. Jack massaged the deep weals on his wrists, his eyes becoming more alert, scanning each corner of the crowded room. He returned his focus on her face, on the bruises and the left eye that was slowly swelling shut. Rage flared upon Jack’s face, his eyes blazed as black as night., then he appeared to turn it inward. The fury cooling and congealing to lethal icy intent. Marie blinked, he really was a scary bastard. Jack guided her into the corner and leant in, his arms braced either side of her, his broad shoulders shielding her from the curious eyes of the crew.
He cupped her tender jaw. “Did he hurt you?” he whispered, for her ears alone. When Marie wasn’t quick to respond, he took her hesitancy for affirmation. “It doesn’t matter to me if he did.”
Marie flinched at the harshly spoken words, and Jack caught the action. His hands tightened and relaxed, flexing several times.
“No, that’s not true, I care that you were hurt, I care that you would be scared and alone. But I swear to you, Marie, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
Marie knew what he was asking and shook her head. “No, no more than what you see.”
Jack inhaled, his nostril flaring. “I’ll kill him.” It was a solemn vow said without bluster.
“No, you won’t, he’s already dead.”
Jack’s lips thinned with displeasure,
and his gaze, filled with curiosity, cut to Marie, and she was sure he would have a hundred questions burning on the tip of his tongue, but ever mindful, he bit them back until later. Jack pushed himself off the wall, and the awareness of the rest of the world flooded back.
“Grayling, keep the men quiet,” he commanded softly, and every man in that packed cell stilled, waiting for the order to be given. “And see what weapons we have.” Jack’s dark eyes rested on Marie. “How many men did you see?”
“Not many, appeared to be a skeleton crew,” Marie relayed, “but a Navy ship is heading our way.” Jack lips thinned at the unwelcomed news, his brow creasing, him no doubt reaching the same conclusion Marie had: they had to move and move fast if they were to save their necks.
There was a couple of blades between the men that had been missed when they’d been searched, and Marie reluctantly relinquished her knife, not that she was particularly attached to it. The blade could be sharper, and thus far, it had been luck rather than her skill that had determined the outcome.
The edge of his jaw hardening in sharp relief and a pained breath hissing through his teeth, Jack rose, his face a mask of unbridled fury and determination, and Marie shivered, pitying the poor souls on deck.
“Grayling, our men with knife skills, sweep the ship from stem to stern, slit their throats, and dump the bodies over the sides.”
Marie tiredly pushed her shoulders back and made to follow the men, but was halted when Jack caught her wrist, pulling her to him. “I want you to stay here.”
Marie scowled. It wasn’t a request, it was a command, and she opened her mouth to argue, but a finger against her lips gave her pause.
“No, you’ve done enough. It is safer for you here while we retake the ship.”
In truth, her legs and arms trembled, the scrapes on her back stung, and half her face throbbed and felt three times its normal size. Releasing a weary breath, she nodded. Though she was not one to sit back while others got their hands dirty, her body was done, and at this moment she would be more hindrance than help.
“Thank you.” Marie blinked—that had been unexpected. The softening in Jack’s countenance had been fleeting, and then it was gone, leaving only wrought-iron will in its place.
Time seemed to slow to a trickle, and Marie closed her eyes, exhausted and, tension warring within, sat on the grimy floor. She remained upright by propping her back against the wall and rubbed her palms over her thighs in a nervous gesture. The crew stalked through the ship like shadows of death, and Marie’s mind played tricks on her. Every now and again she thought she heard an occasional thump, of a body hitting the deck or a half-muffled cry.
At length, Marie was called up on deck, grimacing when she caught sight of a limp body being tossed overboard, the splash sounding.
“Take us out to sea, Griggs, fast.”
She immediately picked out Jack’s voice.
“After that, set a course for—” The rest of the orders were drowned out by the buzz of the crew. The sails were unfurled once the they were clear of the narrow channel, the wind slapping the canvas.
Marie stood to the side, trying to keep out of the way of the hive of activity.
“Go to the cabin, Marie, I will be with you shortly,” Jack said.
Marie understood. He had to make sure all was well with the ship and that they were safely away from the danger before they could see to each other.
She nervously licked her lips. “Have you disposed of the body?”
Damn, she hated how apprehensive she sounded. Jack did a double-take, and for a split second, Marie swore his eyes warmed with pride.
“Not yet,” he admitted ruefully and then gave orders for two men to see it done.
Pulleine’s corpse was carried out under her nose, and Marie remained stone-faced, watching unblinking. Taking in his torn-up face and ruined eye, she felt the crew’s speculative gaze on her, trying to equate how she had managed the feat. It might make her a bad person, but she didn’t feel any guilt or remorse, not one bit—she’d done what she’d had to do.
Reentering the cabin was harder than she thought it would be, the meal left half-finished on the table, her chair knocked back, debris scattered upon the floor from their struggle. The ruined dressed cowered in the corner, the damn thing needed to be burned.
Marie stood at the centre of that small space. It felt like the walls were crowding in on her, and she hugged herself, an island in a becalmed sea. Then, thrusting her shoulders back, she set the cabin to rights, deliberately forcing her mind to focus on one task, then next and the next. The high-pitched whine of the floorboard came from somewhere behind her, and she snapped her head around, the urge to either fight or flee thrumming through her blood.
“Easy, sweeting,” Jack said, stepping farther into cabin, his hands held up in a nonthreatening gesture.
Though his attempt to appear less intimidating wasn’t wholly successful, Marie loved that he had tried.
“It’s only me.”
Marie’s lips tugged upwards in a poor imitation of a grin before the effort became too much and it collapsed. She was a little skittish and more affected by the encounter than she was willing to let on. They just stood there, the small distance between them yawning open, and Jack shifted uncomfortably, as if deciding on his course through uncharted waters. When it became obvious that she would have to make the first move, Marie gestured to one of the chairs.
“Let me see to you, mon grand, please.”
“I should be seeing to your wounds—”
He took a step towards her, and Marie shrank back. Jack halted, watching her intently, and somehow, she found her voice.
“Please, Jack,” she whispered. It was ridiculously important that she kept busy.
He sighed and turned to seat himself on the chair. She crept forward and eased his shirt from his shoulders and grimaced. There was already large discolouration along his ribs and a deep nick in the centre of his chest. Grasping the hem of her shirt, Marie jerked hard and tore a length of cotton, daubing his bruises with the yarrow salve. The warm muscle twitched under her soft touch. Their antipathy having evaporated in the face of the joint threat, and with her most shameful secret now out, Jack deserved to know the rest. She kept her eyes cast down, and the whole sorry tale came pouring out of her mouth.
“Pulleine came one night with his militia,” she murmured, and Jack’s shoulders tensed under her hands. “He’d heard I’d been talking with the planters, to ship their cargo directly rather than through him. They set a torch to our home to make an example of me.”
Her hands trembled, and she tried and failed to tie a knot to secure the poultice with thick fingers. Her vision wavered with unshed tears. Jack’s hands captured her limp ones, and she soaked up his strength through the simple touch, and forced herself to go on.
“I returned fire and escaped into the jungle, taking a musket ball to the side. Do you remember old Eulette?” Marie asked, and Jack frowned at the mention of the old freed slave who lived outside of town. People left her alone for fear she would cast the evil on them. “She saw the flames after they had left and found me.” Marie swallowed hard against the ache in her throat. “She saved me, but despite everything, I lost our child.” She buried her face in her hands, not wishing to see his disappointment.
His arms enfolded her, and he smoothly slid her onto his lap.
“Don’t, you’re hurt,” Marie protested, attempting to keep her weight off him.
“Shhhh, none of that, lass, I need to hold you.”
“I was ill for a very long time, Jack.” Her voice broke, and she turned her head to lay her cheek on an unbruised section of his chest.
Jack’s free hand ran through her hair in a calming gesture.
“I was alone, with no money, no one to turn to, and if Pulleine knew I lived—” A sob choked off the rest of her sentence.
“So, you took the only option you thought open to you—you went to sea,” he finished for her.
Wordlessly, she nodded. Jack’s arms curled around her, clutching her to him. There was no place she’d rather be. After so long, it felt good to be held and to be able to lean on another when she was feeling weak.
“For the longest time I blamed you,” she said.
Jack didn’t even try to hide the wince, and pain lashed through her, as if saying the words out loud had reopened the wound.
“I couldn’t help but think what-if…that if you had stayed it would never have happened.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Marie, I’m so sorry, this is my doing.” He tried to put Marie back on her feet, but she clung to him, struggling to put her emotions into words—she had to lay it all out on the table.
“I know you are not really to blame.” Her voice wobbled, and she held the edge of his shirt in a death grip. “If I hadn’t meddled, Pulleine might have been content to leave me alone, but after our angry parting, it was just easier to hate you, rather…rather than love you.”
“You can say you love me still?” Jack’s brow pinched together as if he was in pain. “I’m the one who insisted on doing business with that blasted devil and left you in danger.”
“No!” Marie said again firmly. She twisted to face him and grasped his cheeks between her palms. “You thought I was safe,” she stressed, staring into his eyes, willing him to feel her heartfelt words. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back. I should have told you about Pulleine’s obsession with me.”
“You tried; I wasn’t willing to listen.” His voice was full of self-recrimination, and he slid his cheek over the crown of her head and inhaled deeply, his chest expanding into Marie’s side.
For the longest time they just held each other.
“I’ve made mistakes, Marie,” Jack said, a troubled expression on his face. “More than I care to admit, but my dearest wish is to start again with you. If you don’t think you are able to, I will put you ashore at a port of your choosing.”
Marie took in his lean, earnest face, his dark eyes sincere, and he held his breath, waiting for her answer. That vulnerability was her undoing, and upon searching her heart, she found after battling so hard to keep him out, Jack had wormed his way back in there. Or perhaps he had just never left. A flicker of humour sparked within her. Though unexpected, it was welcome and chased away the lingering numbness.
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 93
