Siren's Secret

by Trish Albright

  “Have a war? What do you call this?” Samuel shoved the man’s face toward the pile of bodies. “I may not kill you, but don’t tempt me to cut off your tongue and your fighting arm to go with it.”

  Samuel thought the younger man actually paled. Good. Fear was good.

  “Kelley, have the men collect the weapons. Get the prisoners on their knees facing the rail. Hands on their heads. If anyone speaks or tries to struggle—kill them.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Nathan!”

  “Behind you, Cap,” Samuel heard the weary reply.

  “Keep your knife at Mr. Nuh’s throat. I’m taking a party overboard to free the slaves.”

  A voice came from above. “What slaves?”

  He looked up at Olivia. She was inching her way back to the mast, her balance wobbly.

  “Don’t move!” Samuel looked to see who was available to go help her.

  “I’m all right,” she called.

  “No. You’re not! You’re about to—”

  She slipped. Flailed for something to hold, and missed. An instant later she was falling twenty feet toward the deck.

  Samuel did the only thing he could. He opened his arms to catch her. Then he too fell to the deck from the force of her weight.

  He couldn’t move for a full minute, the blow stunning him temporarily. He tried to breathe, then grunted when she started to move. A knee came too close between his legs and he winced as she scrambled to her feet, completely unaware of his discomfort, and herself surprisingly undamaged.

  Kelley cleared his throat and Samuel looked up at the suppressed grin on his boatswain’s face. “You ’right, Cap’n?”

  Samuel squinted out of one eye, his tailbone stinging, his arms aching. “Yeah.” It was a gasped response. He reached out a hand and the other man pulled him to his feet. He exhaled carefully, then breathed and exhaled again.

  Kelley gave him a pat on the back. “Good catch, Cap.”

  “Yeah,” he said again, still recovering. Then sought out Olivia. She’d disappeared.

  “Behind you,” the boatswain informed.

  He turned and bumped into her. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes silvery bright, and her body trembled despite her obvious efforts to appear calm. But she seemed unharmed.

  “You’re all right,” he told her.

  She opened her mouth to deny it.

  “You’re all right,” he insisted.

  Samuel watched as she looked around at the swarm of men, corsairs on their knees, their leader captured, smoke still wafting around them, dead bodies being piled, and wounded men bleeding on the decks.

  “How,” she asked him, shaking, “could I possibly be all right?”

  He grabbed her by the back of her hair, pulled her against him, and crushed his lips to hers, battle hunger raging through him mixed with relief, desire, and demand that she submit. When he released her, she had some color back and strength in her arms as she pushed him away.

  “You’re all right,” he reminded her. He turned to Nathan and his prisoner. “If I don’t come back, kill him.”

  “Gladly, Captain.”

  Samuel smiled a bit as he caught Olivia’s huff. She wasn’t done.

  “I’m not all right! If you think one kiss from you makes everything all right, Stafford, then you’ve clearly no awareness of the benefits of modern medicine.”

  He ignored her, and she shouted at him. “You don’t have magic lips, you know!”

  Samuel grabbed one of the stays and pulled himself to the rail. He searched out her eyes and responded with assurance guaranteed to irritate her. “Yes, I do.”

  Her hands went to her hips as she marched forward. “No, you don’t. And—” Olivia looked at the rope, then at him. “What are you doing?” Then understanding, she warned, “I don’t think you should do that, Stafford.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Ollie. I’ve done this before.”

  “Yes, but the trajectory of your landing—”

  Samuel wasn’t in the mood. She should trust him by now. Had he not just defended her against more than a hundred pirates? He pulled the rope, jumped, and swung off the Avenger.

  Too late, Samuel realized the rope had been caught, and once freed was notably longer. He flew, the line jerked, and he slammed to a dead stop into the side of the enemy ship. His body hit the rail below his ribs, earning an extremely uncomfortable thump in his gut, which caused his upper body to fall over the side until he somersaulted onto the deck and somehow managed to land on his feet. It was a miracle, considering his entire body ached from the beating he’d taken catching Olivia only minutes earlier.

  “I’m all right!” He saluted his laughing crew and accepted their ribbing.

  Olivia shouted, “Indeed, Stafford, I’m sorry if you’ve done that before.”

  Samuel’s men followed. The remaining corsairs were not happy, but threw down their swords. Samuel had the highest-ranking pirate take him to the oarsmen. They used slaves to power their oars, capturing other vessels for the actual slaves. He had never been down on an oar deck. What he found was more heartbreaking than anything he’d ever imagined.

  Over a hundred men, most shirtless, with signs of beating and whip marks, sat hunched over the oars, their feet chained to the ship. Faces, young and old, had the same expression. Hopelessness. Samuel swallowed the emotion in his throat, along with the anger that threatened his control.

  “Get me the keys,” he said in Arabic.

  The man scowled at him. Samuel shouted in his face, impatient.

  “Get me the keys!”

  This time the man understood what he meant. Some of the men looked up. He walked down to the front of the torture chamber, stopping suddenly at the sight of a back covered in blood. He bent on a knee in front of the man. Oh, God. Not a man. A boy. Twelve, at most. Samuel lifted the lad’s face carefully. Their eyes met.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Noah.”

  “American.” He noted the accent.

  The young man nodded. “Baltimore.”

  “Nice town. Hold on.” He looked up and one of his men tossed the keys. “Noah, I’m getting you out of here. Do you understand?”

  Noah stared at him in disbelief.

  Samuel unlocked the chains on each side. “Pull the chains! Carefully.”

  His men pulled the chains, the clanging of metal through shackles signaling hope in dozens of eyes. He’d have to deal with the individual shackles later. Samuel motioned for help, and one of his men ran over. “His name is Noah. Help him first. He’s in bad shape.” Samuel added, “But he’ll be in top shape before he gets home.”

  Noah looked up at him, his freedom finally registering.

  Someone else shouted that they were American.

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” he promised.

  A man cried out he was English.

  Samuel found the desperate face and joked, “I won’t hold that against you, sir.”

  There were pained laughs. “I’m Samuel Stafford, of the American ship Avenger. I have another ship with me and a Dutch companion. Any Dutch here?”

  There were shouts.

  “In case I didn’t make it clear, everyone is getting out.”

  Heads lifted. A rumble of chatter started from end to end as one by one the heavy chains fell away from their bodies.

  When done, his crew pillaged every inch of the ship and brought everything on board the Avenger to be sorted later. Samuel found a substantial amount of gold in the hold, which went a long way to cheering the men. But he knew the night wasn’t over, and it would be a long one, with injuries to attend and damage to the ship to assess. He would need to get ashore soon to purchase provisions for this many men.

  Samuel wasn’t sure how many of his own he had lost, but he knew it numbered in the double digits. He wasn’t used to losing men. He returned to the oar deck before he left. For a long moment he simply stood, looked around, and took stock. He wanted to make sure he never
forgot this.

  He had been lucky today.

  Chapter Ten

  Olivia and Elizabeth immediately set to work sorting through the injuries. There were too many to know where to begin, and not enough supplies to go around.

  The hours stretched into the most interminably long night of their lives. Cook made food, but he also kept hot water on hand for cleansing needles, knives, and instruments. The second mate, Andersen, was the closest thing to a surgeon, but the other ships sent help, and the newly freed slaves did their best to assist where they were able. Olivia thought most of the men just needed food and sleep. Mrs. Tisdale told her they had lost twelve of their own. Considering the terrifying odds, it was surprisingly low. Considering the lost men, it was awful. Two of the men died late in the night, each in their captain’s arms as he comforted them.

  Olivia could not bear it. When the sewing was finally done, she went to Stafford’s chart room, hoping to find any kind of written advice on pain relief. Finding none, she peeked into his cabin. The furnishings were large and comfortable. The bed, lush and inviting. She was tempted to linger. If only she could lie down and sleep … She shook off the weakness and went to a small stack of books instead.

  Quickly she ran a finger over the titles. Not just navigation and maritime books. Classics. Literature. Popular novels. Many in their original language. Hebrew? That was one of his languages? Interesting. She went to his desk, tempted to look through it. Just a quick look. She opened a drawer. Simple instruments. Paper, ink, quills. Nothing interesting. She tried to open the two side drawers. Locked. Hmm. Where would a man like Stafford keep a key?

  Forgetting her original purpose, she did a quick search, feeling underneath the desk, in the drawer. Surely it would be somewhere close. He was tall. Maybe a high ledge. That would make sense. She moved aside a model of a small sailboat to feel the ledge above. The little boat made a funny sound. She shook it. Gads. A trick box. She shouldn’t do it, but the challenge was too tempting. She figured it out in no time. And found the key. Before she could stop herself, she opened the desk, intending only to satisfy her curiosity. The first drawer had guns and a Bible. The second had a logbook. Not the official ship’s log, but a personal one. Underneath was a box.

  She looked at the door, debating. “I am horrible. Oh, gads.” She pulled the log out, then the box. She opened it, disappointed. It was filled with correspondence. Of course. He carried messages for people. She flipped through the names, thinking it was harmless. They all seemed to be merchant-type people. No one she knew. Until—

  Olivia froze. Her father. He was carrying a message to her father. And he hadn’t told her? She turned the envelope over and recognized Lord Grayson’s seal. The late Lord Grayson! What message was Grayson sending her father?

  She stared a very long moment. Had Samuel been at the museum to meet with Grayson? He might have been one of the last to see Grayson? Could he have …? An image of Samuel’s face, ruthless as he crushed men left and right, flashed before her eyes. He was capable of killing without thought, but—No. That was different. And he had done everything possible to protect her.

  Still. Why had he not said anything all this time?

  Olivia pulled out the letter. She would confront him. Yes, that was easy enough. She read all her father’s correspondence. And since he was never home, she frequently had to answer his letters and deal with other issues. There was no reason she should not read this letter. Especially if her father was already in trouble. This might be an important clue.

  The sound of someone coming alerted her. Alarmed at being caught in questionable circumstances, she put everything away, hurriedly but in order, and locked the drawer. She was holding the model of the sailboat when Samuel walked in. One eye was still reddened from her potion, but it was at least fully open again … at least as much as it could be, with the slight swelling.

  “Olivia? What are you doing?” Samuel paused. “Are you well?”

  Ugh. He was concerned about her. She felt instantly guilty. About the key and the eye. “Did you flush the eye with some water? That will help. I was looking for a medical book. I thought I could make a potion with which to clean the wounds.”

  “Use rum.”

  “Surely you don’t have that much—”

  “I do. Use it.” He worried about something else. “There may not be enough thread.”

  “Mrs. Tisdale and I have enough.”

  He nodded, relieved.

  It warmed her that she had been able to help him with something, simple though it was.

  “And we can certainly take our dresses apart if needed,” she said. “To make bandages.”

  He smiled softly. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  Olivia saw her opportunity to explain herself. She lifted the small boat. “I saw this when I was searching for medical books. It was so innocent looking after the chaos of tonight, it distracted me for a moment. But I think there might be a piece inside broken.” She gave it a little jiggle so he could hear the object inside, before she handed it to him.

  He shook his head, surprising her. “It’s not broken.” He maneuvered the pieces expertly, revealing the key much more elegantly than she had. “It’s a puzzle box.”

  “Oooh.” She smiled dutifully. “What’s the key to?”

  He gazed down at her, face serious, and whispered, “My secret whiskey stash.”

  Olivia gave him a mock-prim look. “You’re very bad, Mr. Stafford.” She expected him to agree. To tease back. To tease her. But he didn’t. He nodded and put the small boat back in its place.

  She looked at him again, this time closer. Something wasn’t right. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, raking his hair methodically, as if calming himself. “Nothing. Just needed a break.”

  She waited. Staring. It was something. She forgot the letter. Her stomach clenched. “Have you been injured?” She suddenly worried, and inspected him. Some injuries didn’t show.

  “No, I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”

  “I will if you don’t tell what it is. I can see that it’s something—”

  “Olivia, stop! It’s nothing. Just … some of the men. The slaves that Nuh had. They’ve been there years. It’s …” He shrugged, but Olivia realized it was because he couldn’t speak. Emotion burned in his eyes, and it wasn’t just because of her concoction. He raked his hair again and turned away, and she realized he had come to his room to breathe. To gather himself. Only she’d been there. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t accustomed to this type of situation. Compassion and emotion were … messy.

  “You freed them,” she offered. He didn’t move, so she got closer and put a hand on his arm. “And you saved me, Samuel. Against insurmountable odds. You saved me.” She squeezed his arm. “And the men you freed? They will have their lives back. That’s something.”

  She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him. A strange desire. Especially since he was too big to hold. But her upbringing made it difficult to take that liberty, even in these strange circumstances. So she waited quietly, hoping her words would make a difference.

  Finally, he nodded. “You’re no worse?” He turned, examining her.

  Olivia tilted her head and gave him the most pompous, arrogant expression she could muster. “No worse! Surely you jest. You did see me hanging from the—the what-do-you-call-it that—”

  “The main yard.”

  “Exactly, hanging for dear life, from those miserable, marauding, murderous pirates, whose manners are less than those of the most primitive life forms. My disappointment in the intellect of humanity knows no bounds! And that is something I can never recover from!” She sputtered in disgust. “No worse, you ask?”

  He’d stared for a moment, but she had him halfway through. A smile started, then widened as he shook his head with humor.

  His courage astounded her, and his compassion for her and the others tonight humbled her. To give a man like him a moment of respite in such trying time
s was an honor, and Olivia thought it might well be one of her best moments.

  She smiled back and added, “Every muscle in my body aches. I think I could sleep for a year. A few scrapes. But yes, no worse. And you, Stafford?”

  “I’m invincible.” He imitated the pirate Nuh, lifting his hand, palm up, in the air. Then he winced. “Except for the damage you continually inflict on me.”

  “I spoke in Arabic,” she defended. “You weren’t supposed to look up.”

  “You know I speak Arabic.”

  “Well … well … Well, that’s not very invincible, if a mere woman can take you down,” she said before redirecting. “Let’s go. My perfect stitching skills are needed.”

  He agreed, made a half turn to leave, then turned back abruptly, causing her to bump her nose into his chest.

  “Olivia.”

  She stepped back dazedly, rubbing her nose, wondering what the problem was now.

  “Thank you for that.”

  He seemed to want to say more but didn’t. He did look into her eyes and nod to himself before saying thank you one last time, his large, battle-scarred hand reaching out to touch her cheek. Then he stopped, seeing his own hand, and pulled away. She realized he did not want to touch her, covered as he was in the remains of combat. Something in her tore apart at the aching expression in his eyes, and she grasped his hand in hers before he could remove it, holding it against her cheek for a long moment.

  His beautiful lips curved tenderly, and he leaned down to press them lightly, very lightly, on her forehead, before brushing them across the skin of her nose.

  The gentle sensation was entirely at odds with what she knew of him—with what she had witnessed earlier in battle. Her eyes fluttered shut. She was momentarily stunned.

  “And you are no ‘mere woman.’ ”

  She followed him out, the warmth of his words washing through her, igniting something hopeful inside. She touched her heart, confused by the rapid beat. Her hand slid down and froze when it came into contact with something else. She stopped suddenly, watching his retreating form.