by Kim Bowman
“We’ve a gale raining down on us. This might be your only chance.”
“I don’t like being indebted to you. Why so obliging?” Frink asked. “Or do you plan to stab me in the back?”
“I’m not like you, Captain.”
“Aren’t you, now?”
His voice simmered with barely controlled anger. How did one deal with one’s would-be murderer? “I’ll make it worth your while,” he promised.
The cell door creaked as Frink moved into the open. Henry didn’t trust the fiend with an inch of his life, but he needed him. Frink slid past him, and Henry pushed the cage closed.
Several men jeered, “Make it worth our while, Captain.”
“Why take such a chance?” Frink asked. “Let me guess. The lady.”
Henry nodded. “She’s all I want. You can have everything else.”
Frink’s laughter was soft but alarming as it filled the void. “I’ll be damned if that wench hasn’t bewitched us all.”
~~~~
Percy stood at the helm and gazed down at the swells beginning to crash over the rails. So far, the damage inflicted on the Striker had been slight, but Percy feared the center of the storm would weaken the rudder and throw them perilously off course. Perhaps even crash them into the rocks of lle d’ Quessant along France’s shoreline, if he couldn’t steer them away in time.
Situation dangerous, he’d kept the steering mechanism steady for nearly an hour, fighting the powerful pull of the sea, disregarding the tension in his arms, and the straining tendons in his neck. Seawater bathed him and occasionally his stomach heaved against the distasteful brine. The more he steered the ship ahead of the storm to prevent a shredded sail, the more his braces caught the crosswinds, threatening to rip the ship apart. Fearful the storm would get the best of them, his spirits lifted when more men came pouring out of the hold. One by one, the able-bodied tars moved onto the deck to shore up the lines. But as much as the sight brought relief, his teeth ground together. A terrible foreboding replaced the joy he’d first felt at the sight. These men could have only come from one place — the stockade.
“Haul down the stay-sails!”
His weathered gaze inspected the deck, monitoring each man’s activities. Rain drove down in sheets. Men clustered, fought the wind, shouted to each other, and tied down everything they could get their hands on. Movement along the lanyard rail garnered his attention. Two dark forms emerged, their activities strangely suspicious as they slipped along the deck, making for the gig that banged against the side of the ship in protest.
“Stay clear of the buoys,” he hollered, a briny spray spewing from his mouth. “She’s riding heavy.”
Someone stretched to maneuver the straps. Was there a problem with the knots? In any case, the cloaked figures were at a disadvantage. At any moment the ship could be slammed by another errant wave.
“You there!” he shouted, pointing to a tar lurking on deck. “Get those fools away from the gig!”
The figure, rotund and slow to obey, peered upward, shielding his face with a hand. He then glanced at the Striker’s lanyard side to discover the source of Percy’s concern. When the man didn’t move in the direction of the endangered duo, Percy’s fury intensified.
“Blast your eyes! I gave you an order.” As captain, it fell to him to ensure that everyone on board was safe. He’d be damned if he lost another man.
Percy hollered to Ollie above the increasing roar of wind and sea, “Take my place.”
“Aye, sir!” Ollie responded immediately, strapping himself to the helm.
Percy couldn’t abide fools. A captain must be obeyed at all times; else the entire crew was at risk. What had gotten into his men? Propelled by the danger, he rushed down the steps to the lower deck. But before he landed on the last rung, something hard pelted his back, forcing him to fall flat on his face, gasping for air.
“What the—” He choked and inhaled a lung-filling breath. A quick glance upward revealed why he’d been caught off-guard.
Captain Frink stood above him. “I want my ship back, boy!”
Frink’s boot thrust forward, but Percy whirled away from the kick that would’ve keeled his head and rendered him unconscious — or worse, killed him. He dipped and spun then grabbed the captain’s foot and twisted the limb sideways, flipping Frink on his back. Percy gave a swift turn and a downward thrust, ramming his elbow into Frink’s ribcage. The captain wheezed but recovered to push Percy aside.
“You underestimated me, Sexton.”
“How did you get loose?” Percy demanded, holding his dominant fist close to Frink’s. Elbow bent, he blocked an incoming punch to his face.
Frink grinned wickedly. “I’ve my share of friends, same as you.”
The captain leaped in for another left hand strike to Percy’s chest. The shock against his ribs sent Percy reeling backward. He gathered what strength he had left and lunged sideways, thrusting an upper cut, his fist landed on Frink’s open mouth, cracking the man’s teeth and jaw. The captain sank to his knees, clutching his face, spitting blood.
Jacko and two others surrounded Frink. Within minutes, the captain was bound and manacled to the rail.
“What was he babbling about?” Jacko asked.
“We have a traitor on board.” Someone had cut Frink loose. But who? Who benefited by the chaos?
Frink eyed Percy strangely. “You… slow-witted...” he wheezed.
“Shut it, Frink!” Percy shouted, becoming increasingly uneasy as wind whipped the sails and his men struggled to right the ship against a deluge of sea spray. Where was Constance? Was she still locked in the captain’s cabin under Mr. Banks’ keen eye? Or had Frink done something horrible to her?
Images of two bedraggled figures flashed before his eyes. The gig! He spun on his heels and headed for the small boat. The two figures he’d seen had disappeared, but thankfully, the gig was reasonably secure. A warning voice whispered in his head as he noticed one of the straps had been cut. At that very moment, a rogue wave took him by surprise. The wash pounded him against the ship, wedging him between the gig and the side of the bridge as a result. When the water cleared, he was trapped.
“Don’t move, Captain!” Guffald rushed in and cut several lines to free him. The tiny vessel slipped over the side of the ship and hit the water. Waves proceeded to break it into pieces.
Annoyed, Percy accepted Guffald’s hand and offered his thanks. “Did you see them?”
“See who?” Guffald asked.
“Two figures skulking nearby,” he said, concerned two members of his crew had fallen overboard. “I could have sworn—”
Guffald held onto the side of the ship as a wave drenched him. “Not two figures. Two women.”
“Women? The hell you say!” He surveyed the rough swells, apprehension engulfing him like a massive wave. Had Lady Constance and Mrs. Mortimer escaped their cabins? God help him, had they been swept overboard?
Guffald pointed to a dark alcove beneath the juncture where the gig had been secured. “I caught them trying to drop the gig.”
Percy followed the length of the man’s finger. He squinted until he made out two figures huddled together, whimpering, soaked through.
“Constance?” he asked, staring baffled.
The two women screamed as a wave washed over them. Taken by surprise, Percy and Guffald were knocked into the side of the Striker and then slipped on the receding water. Just before Guffald disappeared over the side of the ship, Percy outstretched his hand and caught the lieutenant by the forearm. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to lift the man safely back on board. Then he turned to face the two women and none-too-gently grabbed Constance by the arm.
Yanking her up, he said, “You’ve had enough adventure for one night.” He lifted Constance into his arms and carried her to the hatchway, expecting Guffald to usher Mrs. Mortimer behind him.
As they descended the stairs to the lower decks, Percy found the companionway in disrepair. Conditions below h
ad worsened since he’d left Constance alone in her cabin. His cabin door dangled off the hinge and banged against the wall, while Banks lay in front of the portal, snoring, oblivious. Angry and shouting an expletive to the lazy cur, he kicked open the swinging door and entered the room.
His foot grazed an empty bottle that rolled to the bunk with a clankety clank. Bloody hell! She’d gotten that cantankerous fool drunk and escaped on her own. Furious, Percy dropped Constance on the bunk and bent closely to ensure she heard him. “I warned you about this ship.”
Guffald ushered Mrs. Mortimer into the room. Percy caught sight of the woman out of the corner of his eye and snapped. “Not here. Put the old hen back in her cabin.”
“Please, sir, let me stay,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed, trying to break away from Guffald. “I’ll not be a bother. Only allow me to tend my mistress.”
“I’ll tend to your mistress, madam,” he snapped with icy disdain. “Guffald will tend to you. And Guffald,” he added without sparing the man a glance, “explain to Mrs. Mortimer what will happen the next time Lady Constance tries to escape.”
“Aye,” Guffald responded gruffly. The room echoed with Guffald’s and Mrs. Mortimer’s retreating footsteps. The door closed roughly, though not all the way, and they were once again alone.
Constance shot him a defiant stare. Some of his anger evaporated as she crossed her arms and pointedly looked away in bold defiance. He was conscious of her scent — salt and rosewood — and the state of her sodden clothes. Even bedraggled, the damn woman was a beautiful menace, a thorn in his side. She’d put her life at risk rather than trust him. What the bloody hell had she been thinking? Or worse, what was so horrible in England that she’d chance boarding a tiny boat during a storm to escape it? His heart beat fiercely against his ribs at the thought of her being tossed about in the waves — of her drowning. He wanted to hold her close, to assure himself that she was alive, unharmed.
“Damn fool. You could have been killed,” he shouted with hoarse frustration.
“I wasn’t,” she said, meeting his stare, abandoning pretense. Fear, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes, weakening his fury.
Only one man could be trusted. Simon Danbury. Without Simon, he’d be unable to continue to finance his mission to locate Celeste’s killers. He needed Simon’s connections to Nelson, the Admiralty Board, dispatches between smugglers, just as much as he needed Constance Danbury alive. How the devil was he going to be able to keep her that way if the chit wouldn’t stay put?
“It’s clear you cannot be left alone.”
Chapter Seven
The captain roared like a half-starved lion. He was angry and rightfully so. Outwardly his fury exaggerated the height of his brow and the length of his nose. His behavior would be almost comical, if she wasn’t afraid of him. Afraid he would raise a hand against her, punish her for all the trouble she’d caused.
Instead of slapping her, however, the pirate waged a silent war, until finally, he broke the silence.
“You’ve caused me more than my fair share of trouble.” His jaw clenched and his lip curled, drawing attention to the crooked hook of his dark mustache. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and cocked his head sideways.
The ship rocked awkwardly and he narrowed his gaze at her. “Be forewarned, I am not done with you.”
His brooding gaze hardened, then he snapped his heels together, turned, and exited the cabin. His angry, authoritative voice boomed down the companionway. Within seconds, a couple of pirates appeared. Armed with tools and lanterns, they grabbed the door to the cabin, lifted it off the hinges, and began to repair it. Thump! Thump! Thump! The sound hammered a warning that she wouldn’t find it easy to maneuver past any of them again.
Constance sat on the bunk dejectedly watching the men work, knees up to her chest, arms crossed. The loud sounds of construction only served to pound home the idea that she was a prisoner. She gazed about the cabin in frustration, loathing the four walls — thankful she was alive. Why had she been so stupid? Had she risked their lives for nothing?
The walls closed in. How long she sat that way, she couldn’t be sure. Her legs had grown stiff by the time she noted the ship rocked slower and the men had gone, having finished their labors. Had the storm waned? Would the captain be returning?
He’d sworn he wasn’t done with her. What did that mean — wasn’t done with her? A chill swept over her as she covered her heart with a trembling hand and gazed down at the wet clothes sticking to her skin. She wasn’t the penniless waif she appeared to be. Was she? She had no mirror to gauge how she looked. But if she didn’t find a way to replenish her father’s coffers…
Constance tugged at her shirt and breeches. A suffocating sensation overwhelmed her. She began to shiver. If she didn’t find something dry to wear, she’d catch the ague. Desperate to keep a clear head, especially if she’d be forced to banter with the captain again, she searched the room, spying the trunk, remembering there had been plenty of dry clothes to choose from inside it. Scurrying off the bed, she opened the trunk lid and searched through the contents. Nothing in it was particularly tasteful, though dry clothes were better than none.
Selecting one of the misbegotten rags, she prayed no one in London would ever see her dressed in trousers. The very idea was scandalous in and of itself, but then she would already create a scandal of epic proportions arriving on a pirate ship so the matter was moot. Perhaps she could escape notice by posing as a cabin boy when they docked?
Who was she kidding? Constance grabbed a handful of worn linen and wool and sank back on her knees nearly in tears.
Her reasons for fleeing Burton had been clearer than spring water, and her father’s attempts to marry her to the man tame in comparison to the calamity she now faced. Choking back a sob, she inhaled a deep breath. She would never find a love match, not now, which made her father’s intentions to control her life crueler than ever before. Blinded by protecting his good name, her father had been determined to satisfy his debts without regard for her feelings, her future. Had he chosen to marry her to any other man, she might have accepted. But Burton was not a normal man. He drank too much, smoked too much, wore too much cologne, postured himself like a brandied pig, and thought of himself more highly than those in her father’s circle. Morty had said it was rumored amongst the help that those in his employ lived like frightened dogs.
Constance shook visibly. What was to become of her? Even if she did return to London, Burton would never fulfill his end of the bargain now. She was ruined. And without having earned Aunt Lydia’s help, Father would be unable to satisfy his creditors. Humbled and frightened, Constance rose and changed into a pair of stained white naval breeches and an overlarge shirt. Though the garments smelled old and musty, she was grateful for the warmth provided to her shivering limbs.
She turned toward the ornate windows and gazed out to sea. The sky parted, revealing glimmering shards of moonlight dancing on the frothy swells behind the ship. It might have been a calming scene were it not for the fact that she anticipated the captain’s return. She had no idea how long it would be before he stormed into the cabin. Leaning against the window frame, she ran her fingers along the glass surface, imagining what her future would have been like if she hadn’t been forced to marry Burton.
Images of a tall, dark, stranger whose touch turned her limbs molten came to mind. She stared at her fingers — small, slender compared to his thicker, stronger ones — remembering how gentle the pirate’s touch had been on her breasts and how easily he’d succeeded in awakening the woman within her.
She shivered uncontrollably. Were these not pirates? Had they not killed her mother?
It would have been better if I’d married for money. At least I would have both my feet on dry ground.
Her gaze strayed to the unmade bunk and to the floor beside it. It took no trouble at all to remember the sight of her nightshift laying half-torn on the floor the morning after the Octavia sank, or her reaction to the sigh
t. In one fateful night, her life had been irrevocably changed. She was no longer a virgin. Even if she was, she was unmarriageable now, and yet she didn’t feel different.
Her eyes suddenly widened and she shuddered with humiliation. What if she was already carrying a pirate’s child? Constance placed her hands on her stomach. How would she ever hide such a disgrace?
A key turned in the lock, scrambling her thoughts. Had the blackguard come at last to punish her for trying to escape? Resentment filled her as she backed against the window pane and held her breath. Click. Her heartbeat threatened to burst from her chest. Every nerve was attuned to the sights and sounds expended by the turning knob. The door opened wide, and the captain materialized, filling the cabin with his immense size. His expression was unreadable, and his dark and unfathomable gaze fastened on her, imprisoning her.
Effortlessly and soundlessly, he closed the door behind him, turned the key in the lock, and placed it in his belt. “How are you faring, wench?” he asked, his deceptively calm voice deep and raspy.
A chill raced down Constance’s spine, and she said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m not a wench.”
“Is that so?” His gaze raked over her and then settled on her bosom.
She was grateful to be hidden in the shadows so he couldn’t see her, couldn’t know that his fiery gaze singed her with unbidden heat.
“You have the right equipment.”
“You’re despicable!” she railed, chastising her body’s betrayal more than him.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Why are you hiding in the shadows?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not hiding.”
“Come away from the window, then.”
“I prefer to stay where I am,” she said. He might have the power to imprison her, but he couldn’t command her as he pleased. She wasn’t his puppet.
“Come away from the window,” he ordered, his sinister tone making her tremble. An angry scowl contorted his face, and he took a menacing step forward.
