The Winds of Fate

by Michel, Elizabeth

  The bolt splintered and with a shout of triumph, the pirates kicked open the door. Grotesque faces leered, a tangle of arms grabbed at them, pulling them onto the deck. Death and mayhem lay spread before them, coupled with the agonizing moans of maimed and wounded men. Smoke hung in the air like a miasma from fire and pistols. Sailors from their ship cried for mercy before they were thrown into the sea. Malevolent laughter followed their plight. Their gallant captain killed and half their number destroyed with him, the ship yawing and rocking in a crippled state. Pirates were everywhere, plundering the merchantman before it sank.

  On board the Sea Scorpion Ames cried out. “Dear God! Lily is on deck. I cannot forsake Lily to Le Trompeur’s vileness. I beg you, Devon to intercede! We must save Lily.”

  Devon swore. Wherever Lily was, Claire would be. He snapped up the scope from Ames. Lily stood next to Cookie. Claire struggled in Le Trompeur’s grasp. Near the mizzenmast, her uncle and Sir Teakle cowered. He lowered the scope. When he turned, his eyes were lit with a fury. Ames stepped back. “Set a course for the Mer Un Serpent!”

  Devon swung to life. “Douse all lights. Move with stealth, lads,” he barked out a myriad of orders. The sails were let out. Darkness cloaked the Sea Scorpion’s swift motion through the water.

  Their progress took too long. Every muscle in his body strained. “Pull up alongside. Take your time. Ease in men. I never knew speed made by over-haste to accomplish what we are about.”

  “Too much speed,” complained Ames. “We’ll destroy both ships at this rate.”

  “Don’t think with your brain, Ames. Think with your gut when things are not as smooth as a convent’s dining-table. We ride on the element of surprise.”

  Bloodsmythe, his gunner came up alongside, his eyes taking on the glittering of an old hound picking up a familiar spoor. “Cannons are ready, when you needin’ them Captain.”

  “Aye,” said Devon. “It will be good seeing our old friend, Le Trompeur.”

  Removed to the deck of the Mer Un Serpent, Claire forced down the irrational fear swelling in her throat. Le Trompeur, the captain of the French pirates, his eyes by nature appeared violent and wild. He posed a figure that even the imagination could not begin to fathom, a fury from the bowels of hell.

  He crooked his finger to Claire with the tolerance of a god for the mortal to whom he condescended. “Come here Mademoiselle. I wish to see you in better light.”

  To remain calm was to remain in control. “Sir, if you will let me go−”

  “Ah, demoiselle. A fantastic creature to lay eyes on after a long and risky voyage. Perhaps you have risen from the depths of the sea as a gift from Poseidon. My beautiful lady, who are you?”

  His words, flattering enough, spoken with the grace of an experienced courtier, yet his platitudes sickened her. His eyes darted over her in hungry and mocking approval. Claire gritted her teeth, not with fear, but with impatience. She lifted her chin, her immediate disdain for him evident. That look in his eyes, his well-groomed mustache, slender build and angular facial features were nothing to recommend. This scourge of the Caribbean represented himself as nobility with his smooth talk. Claire shivered. His aura evoked a greasy reptilian in black boots.

  “Captain, we need your attention−” broke off his lieutenant.

  “Do not ever interrupt me,” he swore at the pirate, his eyes never leaving Claire.

  “But Captain, Sir, we need your attention.”

  “Do not bother me again, or I will slit your throat.” Le Trompeur waited for her answer.

  “No, sir,” she told him, “I am not a gift from the gods for your entertainment. Now if you would let me go−”

  He clutched her arms, pushing her back against the taffrail, his strength surprising her, as did his boldness. Sir Jarvis and Sir Teakle watched the tableau. There would be no help or objection from them.

  “Ah, but I am in love, I think, smitten the very second I laid eyes on you,” he cried, his French accent thick and languorous, his eyes hooded.

  Claire pushed at him. To her distress, it made him laugh and try to kiss her. Rum, cheap cologne and fish nauseated her. More pirates gathered around to laugh and jeer at the vulgar display. She would not beg. She would not scream. It would only fuel their excitement, and her powerlessness angered her. She drew back her knee and brought it up hard against the French Captain’s groin.

  The harshness of pirate laughter drowned out the pained sound that escaped Le Trompeur. He spoke through clenched teeth, his lips gone white and thin.

  “You will rue the day you dared to injure me−” he began in raw fury and turned his glare upon his comrades. Silence snapped the air. His fingers tightened vise-like around her arms. “Know when you’re beaten, you little fool. You are a flower bud that must be forced into the advent of summer.” He thrust his hand down her bodice and pawed her breasts. She heard the material tear, and the ribald laughter of pirates ringing in her ears. Over his shoulder, Cookie and Lily were held back from assisting her. Was it to be a public rape?

  A cannon blast split the air. Everyone jumped. Le Trompeur swiveled to see what havoc was about. From out of nowhere, a large ship came at them. It equaled the Frenchman’s and barreled alongside, furling tops and mainsail, stripping to mizzen and sprit. The ship swept up at such a speed the hulls rammed in an explosion. Claire fell to the deck, half stunned as gun-rails collided, splintering and shattering. The clunk of metal dug into wood, grappling hooks cast over the Mer Un Serpent’s side. Pirates! Dozens of them, swarmed onto the deck from the other ship.

  “Why did you not warn me!” said Le Trompeur.

  “If you weren’t so busy with the woman,” spat his officer.

  And then, from out of a rough-cut mob of feral beasts, slipped a tall muscular man with green eyes in a tawny face, eyes that gleamed the light of wicked determination.

  Devon.

  Claire thought she would faint, a picture of the netherworld could not be more complete. On one side she had Mephistopheles, and on the other side, she had Satan. He had a sword, he had pistols, and he had her full attention.

  “The Black Devil,” His name reverberated from the crew. Sailor’s crossed themselves, buckling under the worst of their fears, the reality of the Black Devil.

  Claire nervously clutched her bodice together. Did she conjure up the image of him? She drank in the sight of his face−a face that aroused deep and profound memories. There was no humble slave or merciful doctor about him now. With his fine tailored shirt open at the throat and exposing his sun-burnished skin, and his tightfitting black pants, he looked a mix of raw predatory instinct, and undeniable power. His black hair was ruffled by the wind, the expressive sweep of his dark brows, and the sensuous bow of his lips−lips she remembered only too well. Even now, she could remember their texture, taste and feel.

  His right hand rested on the pummel of his sword, the easy grace of long habit. He spoke to them in the most eloquent French. “You will save yourselves pain and trouble by handing over your prisoners, and the merchant ship you have commandeered, suffering no losses to your ship, or to yourselves, of course.”

  “Mordieu!” swore Le Trompeur, his expression beyond astonishment. “How dare you come aboard my ship and make such demands. You are lucky, I allow you to live.”

  Devon swaggered to within inches of the French pirate. “Be aware, I ask politely only once, after that, I’ll not be called a fool. I’ll not allow a natural Irish sentimentality to stand in the way of my exercising what is necessary and proper.” He made a broad sweep of his arm. “You have many of my crew as invited guests aboard your ship with forty guns from the Sea Scorpion pointed at your broadside and anxious to fire. So you see, prudence suggests that we make amends, steel our soft hearts to the inevitable, and invite you to be so obliging as to hand over the prisoners.”

  “I see,” said the French Captain, planting his sword-tip firmly into the deck of his ship. With mock-urbanity and suave detachment, he took his measure of t
he Black Devil. “I confess there is much force in what you say.”

  “It’s with good cheer, you lighten my sentiments,” said Captain Blackmon. “I would not seem bothersome, especially since I and my friends owe you, due to our partnership. I am glad that you agree.”

  “But my friend, I did not agree so much.”

  “If there is any alternative that you can suggest…” Devon waited.

  The Frenchman’s eyes played over him like points of steel. “I have thought of an alternative, Captain Blackmon. It depends on your mettle.” He slashed his sword through the air.

  Claire gasped. Did not her uncle say Le Trompeur was the deadliest of swordsmen?

  “You are not afraid to die, Le Trompeur?”

  The Frenchman threw back his head and chortled. “Your inquiry, I find offensive.”

  Devon smiled back at the Frenchman with a distinctly vulpine curve to his lips. “Then allow me to put it another way−perhaps more indulgent. You do not wish to live?”

  “Is it over this woman you dare to breach our friendship?” Le Trompeur guessed.

  “Maybe I’ll remark on your intelligence, but she is insignificant.”

  Devon never looked at her. An ache in her chest lay like an iron weight

  “There is the fact you breached our articles, Le Trompeur, signed and agreed by your own hand. Is it not?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Le Trompeur looked aghast.

  “The matter of your raid on the Santa Luga. I did not receive my half of the rewards.”

  “You dare to call me a cheat.” Le Trompeur glowered.

  “I dare to call you worse. I call you a liar and a cheat.”

  Brandishing cutlasses and pistols, Le Trompeur’s crew gathered menacingly opposed by numbers of Devon’s men. To Claire’s mind, Devon seemed not the least bit ruffled. Instead he addressed the pirates over his shoulder. “Did your Captain inform you of the hefty profit he made in Tortuga? Sixty thousand pounds to be exact. Has he compensated you for your trouble?”

  “You told us you made a measly eight thousand pounds,” one of Le Trompeur’s pirates snarled. “Where is the rest of our share?” Murmurs of angry protest mounted from his crew.

  Even Claire knew such a breach in trust among normal society lay grievous. But among pirates, she could well imagine the deadly results of such a transgression. She gauged the objections. Anger rose like a swell. Divide and conquer. Devon’s brilliant stroke of genius, hastened mutiny on the Mer Un Serpent. Why should she expect different? Weren’t they all cutthroats?

  Le Trompeur’s eyes flashed. “That is an unpardonable insult.”

  “I hope I am not obscure,” Devon said icily. “I am contemplating the irony of your name, Le Trompeur. Does it not mean ‘the deceiver’?”

  Le Trompeur jerked Claire forward. “Perhaps we should ask the woman who she desires to choose.”

  Devon glared at her. Disgust curled his lips.

  Claire seethed her contempt. “You’re all unworthy specimens of humanity. Why should I care?” She tried to pull her arm away from the French pirate. Devon’s eyes slid menacingly to where the French pirate held her fast in his cruel grip then to the tear in her bodice. For a brief second, she saw a tick in his jaw, and it gave her hope.

  “I will not give up the woman,” shouted Le Trompeur.

  “Do you hazard to breach the articles again over a mere woman?” Devon scoffed. “I believe your problems surpass the fuss over her. I will pay you well. What say you the price of these pearls?” Palm open, he displayed the pearls to the greedy eyes of Le Trompeur’s men, men who had been denied their full share from their captain, a monstrous act.

  The first mate plucked a pearl and examined the lustrous gem. “It is beyond compare.”

  Devon laughed. “Taken from a ship in the South Caribbean Sea. Worth exactly thirty thousand pounds. My half of the prize of the Golden Gull.”

  Le Trompeur glared. “Why is the woman so important to you, that you risk my wrath?”

  “The woman?” Devon strode up to her and looked her up and down like a piece of meat. “She means nothing as I have already said. Except for the sum of eleven pounds, my exact worth which is what she paid for me two years ago on a dock in Port Royale. For that I have a score to settle.” He threw wide the handful of valuable pearls.

  And with that motion, the spark of hope extinguished as the pearls clattered to the deck and the rush of pirates to scoop up their prize. Her hands balled into fists, to be bought and sold.

  “My payment for the woman.” His eyes glinted over her face, his tone scornful. “I believe more than a fair and honorable bargain.”

  “Bloody Hell. It is settled with satisfaction to all,” shouted Le Trompeur’s officer.

  The French Captain gave his lieutenant a fierce blow, sending him sprawling. He drew his sword and cast Claire behind him. “I am beyond tired of your empty threats, Captain Blackmon.”

  Devon’s sword flashed. “I do not fight to lose. I never have. You’ll be swimming with the fishes soon enough. The articles provide that any man of whatever rank concealing any part of a prize, be it of the value of no more than a farthing, shall be hanged at the yardarm. It’s what I intended for you in the end. Since you prefer a fight, I’ll be indulging you.”

  The blades rang together in a fierce clash, men backing away to allow them room. Devon took control of the blade and forced Le Trompeur back, as he parried three swift attacks, one after the other. The French Captain fought well, fluid in his strokes, but Devon had the endurance. Claire noted Le Trompeur tired. His brow sweated. His foot slipped on the deck. Devon ignored the advantage and paused, letting his enemy regain his balance. When Le Trompeur found his feet, he lunged forward with all his might. Claire screamed. The impact of the blade would sever his shoulder. Devon danced to the side. Le Trompeur’s sword sliced Devon’s shirt.

  Devon glanced with indifference at the blood on his own sleeve, and up to his French brethren. “Shouldn’t you be begging for clemency?” he laughed sardonically.

  “Not when you are dead, you son of an Irish whore.” Wildly Le Trompeur lunged, his attack vicious. Steel against steel clanged. Shouts from the crew became silent. Devon caught the blade with his own, and held it into a stalemate. They faced each other. “When you are dead, I will spit on your grave.” The Frenchman’s weight surpassed Devon’s throwing him off balance. He tripped and fell to the deck. Claire’s heart froze. Le Trompeur’s blade followed him and would have gone through Devon’s heart. He rolled to the side. On his feet again, Claire saw a fury on Devon’s face she had never witnessed. He parried, knocking the weapon easily from the Frenchman’s hand and brought his own point down and to the side so that he could close the distance. He struck Le Trompeur across the throat with his forearm, and followed him to the deck.

  The French Captain laid beneath him, struggling for air, Devon’s knee in his stomach and an elbow at his throat. The final recognition rose in Le Trompeur’s eyes, the comprehension that he had lost, and this was how he would die. Devon drew his sword arm up and down through his shoulder.

  Devon stood, holding Le Trompeur pinioned to the deck. The Frenchman gasped for breath.

  “You will survive, unfortunately. You should be thankful for my surgeons’ skill. The wound is clean through. Give the orders surrendering the Golden Gull and its prisoners unmolested. We do not desire any needless bloodshed to your crew. For my charity, I will let you live, although you do not deserve to. The articles between us are over. Do not cross my path again. I will be less charitable. If you wish to entertain more foolishness, you and all your men will die.”

  “Go to hell. Take the Golden Gull. It sinks as we speak.”

  “Dooley,” Devon called his shipwright.

  “Aye, Captain. I’ve given her a look over. I can keep her a float.”

  “Well enough,” said Devon. “Now get this filthy cur from my presence and make haste with your departure before I change my mind.”

 
Claire surveyed the French crew, weighing the gravity of those commands. Awed by the Black Devil’s benevolence in saving their own necks, and hatred for their own Captain, they made haste to remove grappling hooks and unfurl a sea of sails.

  Devon could have killed Le Trompeur. Killing her would be a mere nothing.

  Lord, save me, Claire prayed with every sickening second. He was her terror now. With easy grace, he picked her up and swung her over onto the deck of the Sea Scorpion. She was powerless, completely at the mercy of this mass of muscle and power who had vowed his revenge upon her.

  Devon put Claire down, his focus on Sir Jarvis and Sir Teakle. Neither of the two worthless cads had come to her assistance, worried about deliverance from their own peril. Jarvis trembled, recognizing the vital and healthy, well-armed pirates standing before him were the ragged, unkempt starved creatures enslaved on his plantation.

  “It is not often we have such esteemed guests. Won’t you sit down and visit with friends. Old friends,” gestured Devon to Sir Jarvis and Teakle who looked wildly about them. “We scarcely dared hope to meet again, but here we are all amiable and cozy.”

  “I prefer to stand,” said Jarvis, his hostility and rancor evident.

  Devon stepped beneath the bright lantern light. “I’m inclined to hang you and at the very least, flay you alive. What say you, men?”

  Sir Jarvis’s eyes bulged. “Have mercy!”

  “Was it mercy you employed on your slaves?” Devon asked.

  “Give me five minutes with the yellow-bellied bastard, enough to splice his bleedin’ gullet,” growled Bloodsmythe. “At the very least, ye should hang him. It’s the wise thing to do along with the fop.”

  “Please have pity,” cried Sir Teakle. “Jarvis is the one with crimes against you.”

  “Shut-up,” shouted Jarvis.

  Devon stood in front of his long-time nemesis. “You have wreaked a great deal of wickedness and cruelty in your days, and I want this to be a lesson to you, a lesson that you will remember.” From the corner of his eye, Devon observed the shocked look on Claire’s countenance, halting him. Why should her opinion bother him? Silence slid around them, broken by the sound of the wind against the sails.