by Kim Bowman
Movement. Sound. The door splintered above the reinforced bolt. Mrs. Mortimer shrieked as someone kicked debris out of the way, crouched low, and prepared for resistance. Constance lifted the bedwarmer and slammed it over the man’s skull. He crashed to the floor in an unconscious heap.
She lifted the copper weapon to strike again. But just as she swung to hit the second man, a meaty fist swatted it away. A patch covered this pirate’s eye, and his scowl revealed a rebellious, angry countenance as his vicious stare raked her head to toe.
Behind him, pirates moved in to pillage the room, tossing aside debris, brandishing weapons, laughing riotously, desiring a go at the “appetizing wenches.” But not this pirate. With authority, he extended his hand into the air, bringing the other large men with heaving chests and torn clothing spattered with blood to a halt. Captain Collins and his crew must have proven their worth, given their bedraggled appearance. That thought alone brought her a small measure of hope that the Octavia’s crew might still be alive.
But what if they were all dead? She glanced man to man, searching for someone, anyone who might come to her aid. What she saw made her knees shake. One pirate grabbed his crotch lewdly and nodded. Two men stared at her bosom, one licked his lips. Constance followed the direction of their gazes and her breath solidified in her throat. Her shift, right shoulder torn, sagged down across one breast, revealing too much flesh. She gasped and pulled the fabric closed.
“The way this cabin had been fortified, I expected to find the Queen.”
The cabin exploded with raucous laughter as the men shuffled and pressed so close to her the nauseating smell of sweat and blood assaulted her senses.
“You handle that weapon expertly, lass. What else can you do?” the one-eyed pirate asked.
Constance refused to cower. She tossed her head back, firmly intent on surviving whatever the pirates forced on her. She didn’t want to die.
Finding her voice, Mrs. Mortimer screeched, “Leave us be!”
“Never fear,” the demon said. “We’ve never misused a wench who didn’t welcome the attention.” A buoyant cheer rose from the men.
Mrs. Mortimer released a heart wrenching sob.
“You may be common,” the blackguard stated, looking Constance up and down, “but we aren’t particular, are we, men?”
She didn’t miss his emphasis on “we.” She and Mrs. Mortimer were to be passed from one man to another like common doxies. Constance lifted her chin another notch. Common, indeed!
“Your desire to fight is natural,” he assured. “But the temptation will pass.”
The leader paused. A disturbing glint flickered in his eye. Had he decided to kill her? He tilted his head sideways and stepped forward.
She backed away. “Don’t come any closer.”
Unfazed, he took another step. “I stand corrected,” he said, placing surprisingly warm fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head left, then right, as if searching her features for something. “You, my little blossom, are anything but common.” A frown creased his brow. He pulled away, breaking contact, leaving a strange burning sensation where his fingers had been.
Shock infiltrated her senses. What had just happened? Had he recognized her? The very idea was absurd. He was a pirate! They didn’t frequent the same social circles. And yet something had registered between them. She’d felt it in his gaze, his touch.
He turned away to address the other brigands in the room. “Search the room. Report whatever you find to me.”
Men rifled through her belongings, scattering petticoats and stockings about the room as if they were rags.
Constance focused on planning her escape. If Captain Collins and Lieutenant Guffald were still alive, they wouldn’t want her to succumb to theatrics. They would need her to be level-headed.
Fabric ripped. Constance rushed at the thieves who’d torn the hem of her green lined riding habit and were only seconds away from discovering her hidden money pouch. The garment held the last valuable farthing she’d saved to procure transportation to Aunt Lydia’s home. Without those funds, she and Mrs. Mortimer would be destitute.
“Stay back,” the one-eyed brigand warned, intercepting her, his voice dagger sharp.
Constance was forced to watch her future fade before her eyes as the rogues ripped into the wool cloth. Grinning, one rotten-mouthed man produced the pouch and threw it into the one-eyed pirate’s hand. The cur tossed the purse, weighed it, nodded, and ordered his lackey to take the money topside.
With nothing left to distract them, her captors turned away from her to plunder another one of her trunks. Constance stood by helplessly as one by one, men filtered in and out of the room.
Clothed in black, wearing tall Hessian boots, the overseeing pirate loomed larger than life, his dark, wavy hair draping away from his beard at the slightest tilt of his head. His leather eye patch, held in place by a blood-red scarf, gave him a sinful air that made Constance quiver. His facial features, concealed as they were beneath a mustache and beard, kept her from judging the man’s character. No. It would do no good to beg and plead for clemency. However, she feared she was but moments away from resorting to those tactics.
The only option she had was to escape. But how? The room was too small to rush by him without getting snagged by an arm. Men shuffled about in the hatchway, preventing her passage. She’d be a fool to think she could outmaneuver men trained to scuttle a ship and wreak havoc on human life. Was escape even possible?
“Plotting a getaway?” he asked, while studying the state of his fingernail. Had she been that obvious? “Don’t try anything foolish. That could get you killed.”
She wasn’t a fool. Did he expect her to follow him blindly to the side of the ship and obey his command to jump, or worse, succumb to a pirate’s lust? No. If she was going to die, she would rather die fighting to survive. She shivered as the brigand caught her eye and gave his head a negative shake as if reading her thoughts — again. His suggestive gaze brought an unwelcome flush to her cheeks. She flinched as he moved forward, and instinctively backed away.
He tossed her a wrap. “No harm will come to you as long as you do as I say.”
Constance grabbed the garment, placing her arms through the linen sleeves and pulled the wrap closed, thankful for some measure of modesty. Two men entered the cabin, spoke with the tyrant, turned to look at her, smirked, and then one of them left. Constance drew Mrs. Mortimer close.
“Take the old woman to the Striker.”
In response to the order, one of the leader’s men moved forward to snatch Morty.
“No!” she screamed, refusing to let go of Mrs. Mortimer’s hand.
Morty cried, “God be with you, child,” and then she was gone.
Constance shivered with fright as it suddenly occurred to her Lord Burton paled in comparison to the confident killer standing before her. She knew what Burton was capable of, but what did this rogue plan to do with her?
The one-eyed devil stared at her for an inestimable time. “I’ve an eye for beauty.” He paused, his face creasing into a sudden lop-sided grin. “And I never forget a face.”
Before thinking better of it, she snapped, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
To be alone with the dangerous man now surely meant he intended to ruin her. After all, he was a pirate. And pirates were all the same, weren’t they? She swallowed hard, hoping she had enough courage to withstand whatever torture the blackguard had in mind.
He moved in closer, his height and size commanding her attention. “You’re a beauty.”
What did pirates know about beauty? All they did was destroy everything they touched. “Perhaps a physician should check your good eye.”
Laughter engulfed him as he retreated toward the center of the room and then turned back to look at her, quirking his brow. “Do you intend to slay your enemy with wit or a bedwarmer?”
Constance wrapped her arms around herself like a protective cocoon, fearful he would attack at a
ny time. But he paid her no more attention as he leaned on one of her trunks, his thigh straining against the dark fabric of his breeches. A big man, his agile physique and strength were evidence he could overpower her in seconds. That thought crippled any hopes she had of knocking him senseless.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Do you intend to seek a ransom for me?”
His loud guffaw exasperated her. Arrogant, frightening man.
“It’s customary to answer a question before asking one,” he parried.
He stood, his body a lithe predatory element, igniting fear inside her unlike any she’d ever known. She was vaguely aware of the struggling crew overhead, of the rocking of the ship beneath her, and the four walls of the cabin closing in. He smelled like musk, smoke, and wood, not like the grease, sulfur, and filth of the other men.
“What is your name?”
She craned her neck to look at his face. Her lips failed to comply. He was too close. He didn’t fit into the mold of her mother’s attackers, men she vividly remembered through a child’s eyes — dirty, toothless, and vile. This man, this blackguard, was dark where Lieutenant Guffald was light. He was menacing and willful, where her father exemplified dignity and social breeding. Constance shivered and pulled the wrap he’d given her closer together. Fearing the next few minutes, hours, she longed for her mother’s strength. She was a lady, the daughter of a proud nobleman, a man who happened to be destitute but not by his own design. She’d been sheltered from cruelty, protected from diabolical men, until her father had been forced to make a deal with Lord Montgomery Burton, Baron of Burton — until now. She couldn’t give her real name. The disgrace would be irreparable to her father’s already tarnished image. But what answer could she give to appease the man’s curiosity? And if she lied and he discovered her ruse, what then?
“I expect a reply,” he said.
Constance was trapped. For the first time in her life, she wondered why she hadn’t married for money. In her stupidity, in her selfishness, she, the mouse, had escaped the buzzard only to get snatched by the hawk.
The rogue assumed a cock-sure stance, hands fisted at his hips, powerful legs braced apart as if he was one with the ship. He licked his lips. Against her will, she watched his tongue linger at the corner of his mouth. He was no gentleman. But neither was Lord Burton, a notable member of the ton, a man with a reputation built on false decency. Appearances could be deceiving. If that was true, could this man be anything different than what he appeared to be — her executioner?
“Come now. You’re no mute. Speak up!”
“Very well, then. What kind of man preys upon a defenseless woman?”
“Defenseless? What do you call that tin pan you planted on Saracen’s head?”
“Evening the odds,” she said. So the pirate they’d carried away was called Saracen. She mentally noted it. If she made it off the ship alive, she intended to have each and every one of the derelicts hunted down and prosecuted.
Fire sparked in his eye. “You’re quick witted,” he said. “I’d laugh, if I wasn’t all-too aware foolishness can get you killed.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Nod if you understand. Tell me you will heed my advice.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she countered, “until you give me your word you won’t harm me or my companion.”
“Why would I do that?”
Her heart skipped a beat. His question could be taken two ways. Had he no intention of harming them or no intention to acquiesce to her request? Her voice quivered uncontrollably. “Only a disreputable man would ask that question.”
“Disreputable?” He laughed. “I’d be dead if I wasn’t.”
Don’t trust a pirate, Constance.
“Now, tell me your name,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “I need to know who I’m taking to my captain.”
Captain? Her mind scrambled for more information. Yes, he’d mentioned his captain earlier. Her heart pounded with renewed fright. What if this man’s captain was worse than he was? The stakes had suddenly risen.
He leaned closer, close enough to affect the nerve-endings on the surface of her skin. Close enough for her to see muscles twitch in his scruffy jaw. “I cannot help you until I know the truth.”
Constance straightened her spine and blurted the first name that came to mind. “I am Elizabeth Duncan, Admiral Duncan’s daughter. If you lay a hand on me, the Royal Navy will see to it that you hang from an iron cage at Tilbury Point until you rot.”
The one-eyed devil scowled. “Admiral Duncan’s daughter, eh?”
She raised her chin a notch. “Yes.”
A strange smirk drew up the corners of his mouth. His breath fanned warm across her cheek as he leaned in and spoke. “Liar! Admiral Duncan is dead and his daughters are beyond their prime.”
Shock raced through her system. He’d called her bluff. But how did a pirate know intimate details of Admiral Duncan’s life or have personal information about his daughters? Unless…
“Do I need to point out that lying to me or anyone else on this vessel will get you killed? Now,” he said between clenched teeth, “the truth. What are you doing on this ship?”
He hovered just above her lips. Her lungs fought for air. What was he capable of? She didn’t trust him. She could never trust a pirate!
“I-I’m traveling to Spain,” she babbled uncontrollably as her nerves gave way.
“Why?” he demanded as if losing his patience.
“To visit my aunt.”
“For what purpose?”
A man like him would never understand. Constance took a deep breath. “‘Tis a family issue.”
“You’re obviously a woman of good breeding. What could possibly be so bad that you would risk sailing to Spain for it?”
The purpose of her journey was none of his affair. “You’re a pirate. What could you possibly know about a woman with my breeding?”
Her barb found its mark. He grimaced. “You’re quite the prize.”
He stared long and hard and then flashed a boyish grin, exposing teeth surprisingly white and straight against his battle-drawn face. “Since you insist on being stubborn, I’m at a loss as to what to do with you.”
He stepped back and beat his thigh with a leather glove, the staccato rhythm ominous in the small confines of the room. Had the time finally come for violence? His steely gaze assured her she’d receive no leniency. And rightfully so. He was everything she’d been brought up to hate: greedy, violent, and unpredictable.
“Is it war you want?” His gaze flicked toward the door as if sensing her urge to run.
“I want my freedom.”
“Freedom comes with a price,” he said. “Freedom has to be earned.” He crossed the space between them and grabbed her chin, tilting her face right, then left. “You remind me of someone.”
Constance bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering and winced, forgetting that she’d split it falling from her bunk. His eye narrowed, and for a moment, she thought compassion flickered in his gaze. She licked her lip, tasting blood.
“One of your strumpets, no doubt.” She regretted the words as soon as she said them.
“They would be more imaginative,” he said, quirking his brow.
Was he mocking her? “Do your worst, you despicable lout!”
“Aye, you have a harlot’s tongue in that virginal body of yours. What else have you got in there?” he said, reaching for her waist.
“You’ll rot in hell before I behave like a harlot for you.”
He chuckled. “Promises, promises.” He was nearer than a man ought to be. So close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against the thin material covering her breasts.
“Why are you so determined to conceal your identity? I assure you, you have nothing to fear.”
“Liar,” she sobbed.
“To believe otherwise will cause you unnecessary pain.” The demon was gone. This man seemed almost — h
uman. Dare she hope?
“Let me go,” she pleaded.
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re insane!”
“More like a man of purpose.”
She beat her fists against his chest. “You’re a pirate! Not a real man!”
He rewarded her with a scowl. “How would you know the difference?” His angry stare dared her to insult him again. He cupped her face, forcing her to look into his eye. “A bigger world than you know exists. In a moment, you’ll be forced to embrace it, whether you’re ready or not. Believe me, you’ll think twice before opening that delectable mouth of yours again.”
“You’re a monster,” she cried.
“You. Aren’t. Listening. It’s dangerous to tempt anyone aboard the Striker, and that is where you’re bound. Angering one of the crew could very well get you killed — or worse.”
He was warning her. Did that mean he meant to protect her? “What are trying to say?”
His gaze flicked to the doorway. He hailed a man stationed there and ordered him topside. When the pirate disappeared, her captor produced a rope and promptly tied her hands together. “I do not count myself among those who would take an unwilling woman. If you are who I suspect you to be, you’ll listen to my every word and follow my every command.”
“How can I trust you?” she asked.
A cough sounded from the doorway and the interruption deferred his answer. “Frink wants the lady topside.”
“Captain Frink?” The words fled her mouth before she could stop them.
“Yes,” he said, his voice final like a nail hammered in a coffin.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the horrific memories of burying an empty casket. Her stomach recoiled and her body stiffened as she lost all hope for pardonable ransom. If Frink was at the helm of the pirate vessel, Striker, she would find no small amount of compassion.
Constance gazed up into the rogue’s face. Could she trust him? Was she brave enough to make that choice?
