by Kim Bowman
“The captain’s waitin’. You know he doesn’t like to be kept waitin’, bos’un,” the man at the doorway said.
“Nor do I,” the devil replied.
Chapter Two
Constance didn’t want to die.
Her throat constricted, her limbs quaked. Mind-numbing fear took hold, as the brigand led her out the cabin door. Where was he taking her? What horrors waited in the companionway? Above deck? What would become of her at Captain Frink’s dispatch?
She squeezed her eyelids closed to escape the horrifying answer, only to be confronted by a vivid memory of white linen disappearing beneath the frothy sea. Her eyes flickered wide. Death! She wouldn’t survive another introduction to the man who’d decimated her youth and killed her mother before her eyes. Fate didn’t offer second chances. Did it?
Resolutely, her gaze settled on her captor. She was good and truly trapped. Had the fires of Hades smelted a savior on her behalf? Or had she been spit out of Poseidon’s mouth and thrown back into hell? She had no way to be sure as her captor leaned closer.
“Killing you doesn’t fit into my plans,” the rogue said, eye narrowing beneath a furrowed brow, his hot breath teasing flesh at the nape of her neck.
“P-Plans? What plans?” Did she really want to know? Pirates always had devious plans.
“Bos’un! We’ve only got a matter of minutes before all hell breaks loose.” The blackguard’s lips brushed her neck. Odd, strangely comforting sensations rippled across her spine as he said, “Whatever you do, trust no one but me.”
Inconceivable! She focused on the woodwork above her. How could he expect her to trust him? Ridiculous! Captain Collins and Lieutenant Guffald had risked their lives to protect her or were perhaps even now lying on deck dead. They deserved her loyalty, her trust. Not this pirate.
“I trust no one,” she admitted. “Especially pirates. Kill me now and be done with it!”
“What a loss that would be.”
Loss? To whom? Constance suddenly grew bolder. “A loss of your sport!”
“Aye. But no one else will help you. You’d best figure that out soon. If you want to get off this ship alive, you’ll do what I say.”
“It’s time, bos’un!” a tar standing in the doorway announced.
The demon near her growled, an ominous sound belying any vow of protection. He peered over her shoulder at the man in the doorway, his lips mere inches away from her cheek. Hard against her body, lean and muscular, she had no way of escaping the tight rein on her shoulders.
“We stand to lose everything if we don’t appear on deck,” the harassing pirate snapped.
In one quick motion, Constance’s eyes widened in alarm as she found herself turned around and forced to face her captor. His broad, bare hand gently cupped her chin, tilting her face upward until she met his dark, imposing gaze. “Remember what I said. You’ll be safe with me. Stay by my side. And whatever you do, don’t look the captain in the eyes.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Would you trust Simon Danbury?”
My uncle? Good heavens! She’d almost said that aloud. But that was — impossible! “Where have you heard that name?”
“It doesn’t matter where. Would you trust him?”
“With my life,” she vowed, wincing as his fingers dug into her shoulders.
“Then trust me.”
“Impossible,” she said, her heart hammering in her chest as she choked back a sob.
“You have no other choice. Or would you prefer taking your petition to Captain Frink? I guarantee you’ll not find him as accommodating.”
She wasn’t given time to answer. The man tugged her bound hands and hauled her along behind him, his strides sure, lengthy, and quick footed. Barely able to keep up, it took every ounce of her strength to remain upright as they left the cabin and threaded their way through the companionway up to the deck.
Agonizing wails filled the air. Moonlight filtered down from the hatch, illuminating images along the way. Half-blind, half-dragged, she stumbled here and there, righting herself by grabbing onto anything she could, particularly a large form coated with something warm and wet. Appalled, Constance frantically wiped her sticky hand on her shift and kept her gaze trained on first the ceiling then the night sky, after realizing, with horror, her error.
“Keep up,” he shouted, glaring back at her. “If you want freedom, you must earn it.”
All Constance had ever wanted was her freedom; freedom from her father’s overprotection, the pressures to increase his coffers, not to mention an unsuitable forced marriage. Now, as she ascended the steps that led to her certain execution, once again she clung to a pirate’s hand with vigorous zeal, unwilling to be parted.
“Don’t kill me,” she pleaded.
He turned, eye narrowing, anger marring his features. “If you trust me, you shall have your freedom.”
Moonlight cast a silver sheen on the pirate’s features, making him appear almost god-like, and then on the deck as they ascended the stairs and stepped outside. Gunfire had riddled the sails. Masts splintered by cannon lay in jagged shards, surrounded by broken, bleeding men. Constance covered her mouth to stifle a scream and bit her fist when the urge to do so overwhelmed her.
“Stay calm,” her captor warned. “That’ll keep you alive.”
Stay calm? How was that possible when men without limbs lay bleeding to death or gutted, staring sightlessly skyward, and the wounded, suffering unmentionable pain, reached out for her — anyone — pleading for an end to their misery?
Constance fought the urge to retch. The once pristine ship with its polished deck and shiny brass was an unrecognizable splintered river of blood. Horribly sickened, she stared at her liberator’s muscled back until barbaric shouts, a voice she could never forget if she tried, drew her attention to a figure weaving in and out of a group of men. The man loomed over a stooped form, shouting, waving his sword to all who would listen. Fear gripped her. Her chest tightened until she couldn’t bear to breathe and her legs threatened to collapse.
Everything around her dimmed until an abrupt tug at her wrists brought her closer to him. “Keep to my back,” her captor warned. “Don’t feast your eyes on the carnage ahead.”
He pulled her toward the men positioned at the bow. Bodies of the dead and dying lay scattered haphazardly about, illumined by sporadic fires aboard ship. A shrill scream penetrated the night, shattering her heightened emotions. Constance froze. Her legs threatened to buckle. The hand gripping her arm tensed. She glanced down at the lifeline as if clinging to the only buoy she had left, mindful to keep her eyes trained on her feet. A flash of light distracted her. She turned her gaze toward the lighted torch, catching sight of two men rifling through an unconscious man’s pockets. Her breath caught in her throat. Good God! The poor soul, blond hair bloodied, appeared somehow familiar. Constance searched her memory until another torch made everything clear.
It couldn’t be! She gasped for air. Lieutenant Guffald! Terrified for the lieutenant’s life, she jerked against the pirate’s tight hold in order to go to his aid. But the grip on her wrist remained unrelentingly firm.
“Don’t fight me,” he snapped, his voice deadly precise.
Another scream rent the air. Fear and curiosity getting the better of her, Constance could no longer fight the urge to discover its source. She peered around the pirate’s arm until her gaze locked on Captain Collins tied to the mizzenmast. The sight emerged so horrific, Constance’s legs gave way, and she sank into the abyss.
~~~~
Percival Avery braced himself to catch Lady Constance Danbury in his arms, surprised she’d lasted that long. He held her close, wondering what the hell Lord Simon Danbury’s niece was doing aboard the Octavia. He’d have done anything to prevent the attack on the merchantman if he’d known about her passage beforehand. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case. Now it was too late to hide her presence from Captain Frink.
Surrounded by the stench o
f death and misery, her presence aboard the merchantman put him in a tenuous position. She was not what he needed. Not now, not when he’d been so close to achieving everything he’d worked so hard to attain. Vengeance. His mind weathered the odds of fate that bound him to a woman he simply had no time to rescue.
Simon’s directive had placed him under Captain Frink’s command. The coordinated efforts of members within Nelson’s Tea dictated routes taken to sabotage the madman’s attacks on various cargos sailing the Channel. Frink’s association with his sister’s killers created a division of loyalties within him. He’d lived and fought for eight months to win the depraved captain’s trust. Now, thanks to the appearance of one woman, he stood to lose everything.
Percy cursed his rotten luck. The irony was inescapable. Mutiny, the last resort for a pirate, would be his only chance to get the lady safely off the ship and back home into Danbury’s expectant arms. He was not immune to the ramifications that one miraculous act would ignite upon his own hide.
“We can’t afford to let anything get in our way,” Ollie, his second in command said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “We’ve come too far to let anything stop us now.”
He recalled the many lives lost in their race to catch Frink’s backer and swore under his breath. None of their efforts had gone unrewarded. Yet the primal creature he’d become in order to stay sane sickened him.
“Have you lost your sense of decency?” he spat. “Allowing Simon’s niece to bear witness to Frink’s bloodbath is not part of our plan.”
“We do what needs be done. It’s the only way to collect our golden goose. You know this better than I.”
Ollie’s words stung more than salt on a whipped man’s back. He hated what Ollie had become, what he’d been forced to become in order to survive among Frink’s crew. What had happened to his convictions of right and wrong? God help him, he was not the man he’d set out to be at the beginning of this mission, especially if he even considered finding a way to protect the girl without making the final cut with Frink.
Percy turned his back on Ollie then scanned over the Octavia’s remaining crew, men who’d fought bravely to protect the woman in his arms — and lost. Their dwindling numbers guaranteed his limited options. He’d have to make a final stand or die.
Ollie hounded him. “If Frink gets wind of this, he’ll have you killed.”
“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
Ollie glared at Constance. “What if the girl recognizes you?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Are you certain? Would you wager the lives of our men?”
Percy scowled. He rued the day he accepted Simon’s writ and signed on with Barnabas Frink. Since that moment, he’d proven his loyalty to the insane captain again and again in a quest to find answers to the mystery of his sister’s death. He’d been flogged countless times for his endeavors. Presently, he shifted his hip, allowing the scars rubbing against the fabric on his back to remind him how much he’d sacrificed to get into Frink’s good graces. He’d put aside his name, his position amongst the ton, and denied himself happiness. What more would he be asked to give?
“Sexton!” Frink bellowed. Oh, how the name and invention of Thomas Sexton blighted Percy’s soul. “What have you got there?”
Percy’s gaze dropped to the unconscious woman in his arms. Golden hair draped over his arm like the impenetrable shield of an angel in the aftermath of Armageddon. Tiny, fragile, she was no fallen angelic warrior, but an innocent Frink would destroy.
“Bring her here, Sexton. I want her to join our little gathering.”
Percy exchanged glances with Ollie and then gathered Constance’s shapely form closer to his chest. She was a Danbury, all right, a golden lioness. For that reason, he worried for her safety. One wrong word, one open-ended threat had sent Frink into a frenzy more times than he could count.
“Give him no need to admonish you, lad. You’ll need your strength,” Jacko, his first-mate, said as he sauntered up alongside, wiping sweat from his brow.
Keeping his eyes trained on Frink, Percy made the decision that would derail every one of his aspirations for revenge. “Wait for my signal. We cannot and must not fail.”
Captain Frink appeared to show signs of losing patience. Extremely temperamental, Frink was the most feared captain known to man. His formfitting maroon brocade jacket was splattered with blood of the innocent. His face was smeared with oil, gunpowder, and sulphur. He wore a maniacal smile that decreed his hunger had yet to be staunched. Percy hugged Constance closer to his heart, prepared to die protecting her if need be.
“What have you got there, Sexton?”
“A prize worthy of ransom, Captain,” he pressed, desiring Frink to treat his captive as a valuable commodity and not incommodious sport.
Frink’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why isn’t she conscious? Why have you denied me her screams of fright and me crew her delights?”
The threat in Frink’s eye warned him to take care, but Percy knew the man had already heard her screams. What baited hook did the captain dangle before him?
“She’s weak, Captain,” Ollie intruded. “We had no more than made our way onto deck then she fainted dead away.”
Frink’s eyes narrowed as he pondered Ollie’s unpardonable mistake, interrupting the madman. Percy held his breath, for he had seen that look and felt the resulting effects of the man’s anger before.
“That old crone didn’t seem affected,” Frink stated matter-of-factly.
Ollie cackled. “That badger’s not as frail as this one.”
Frink backhanded Ollie in a fit of explosive rage. “You bloody wastrel! That is the last time you’ll interrupt me!”
Ollie clenched his fists. Frink raised his cutlass, prepared to strike. Percy warned Ollie off and stepped forward. “Ollie had nothing to do with this. I hit the girl, Captain. You heard her scream. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a blithering woman.”
Frink turned on him, stared hard, and then growled a curse. The captain would find no fault with his actions. In fact, he expected Frink to applaud them.
A howl of demented laughter erupted from Frink. “That be the difference between us, Sexton. I like a woman to squirm and beg. You’ve always been won over with soft-spoken words and promises. Today, spawn, you’ve won me respect.”
Turning on his heel, Frink yelled above the din to the men who clamored to fight off the last of the Octavia’s crew. Fire burned on the bow, lighting the night, casting Frink in sinister contrast to those who struggled to survive. Wood snapped and crackled, increasing the expectancy of everyone present.
“You know’d the law when you signed, Sexton,” Frink reminded him. “Your disobedience has cost me on more than one account. You’re a damn good pirate, one with an insatiable appetite I’ve yet to see quenched. And,” he added, “you’re a man who’s outlasted his turn more than once with the cat.”
Frink sneered as if that one act of defiance irritated him. Then he raised his cutlass high. Warily, Percy eyed Frink, prepared to act should the captain attack.
A cacophony of voices rent the night, some bloodcurdling, some victorious. Sounds of shattering glass and busted wood echoed in the air as men tossed provisions to and from the Octavia to their ship, the Striker. Percy held no illusions. Frink was a frayed rope ready to snap. Like a male bird preening for a mate, the fiend paced left, then right. A captain’s life became forfeit if his authority ever came into question. Frink, better than any other, knew how tenuous his position as captain could be if he didn’t face down any threat to his command when it was made. And Percy had always been viewed as a threat.
“She looks a wee bit small. Pretty, too. Were you fighting over her?”
“Would it make a difference?” Percy answered. “She wanted nothing to do with either of us.”
Frink smiled a wicked purposeful warning. “No? I suppose not. This one is made of finer stuff than we’ve ever seen. Will she survive? No matter
. These women never do. So to say whether or not your attempts to bed her before me were worth it or not, well… we shall never know.”
Evil to the core, Frink raised his cutlass again to anyone who would listen. “Captain Collins forfeited all rights to parlay by aiming his guns at our ship!”
The Striker’s crew gathered around Collins. Percy knew the only thing on the minds of these men was the booty in the Octavia’s hull. No matter what occurred next, they wouldn’t be denied their share.
Frink pivoted on his heel and pointed his cutlass at Percy’s neck, drawing blood. “You’ll rue the day your mother spawned you, Sexton. I should have had you pickled for your insolence the first day I laid eyes on you. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to steal me wench, nor the last, I wager.” Scratching his wiry-haired chin, Frink stared at Constance pensively then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’re a good man in a fight, but you’ve got a bleeding heart. I was looking forward to having the wench watch me conclude me business with Captain Collins.”
Frink spun around and then moved quickly past Collins. The Octavia’s captain was seated, helpless. His hocks had been cut, saltpeter placed between his toes and set afire, a revolting sight to the most stalwart stomach.
“What do you say, Collins?” Frink bellowed. “That fair piece you carried aboard might miss our little fun, but that doesn’t mean we can’t conclude our business, does it, men?”
A grand “hoorah” ignited the crowd.
Captain Collins harrumphed. “You’re despicable!”
A pirate smacked Collins over the head, opening a new wound. Frink shouted, encouraging his men, waving his arms about like a thrashing squid. Riotous laughter echoed about them. The crowd of misbegotten souls included Percy’s men. A quick search found two, four, ten men waiting for his signal. He shook his head. Patience. Timing was everything.
Frink slashed his cutlass through the air as he paced in front of Collins’ unconscious form. Then, changing tactic, he whirred the blade past Percy’s head.
