My Fallen Angel

by Pamela Britton

  She patted his arm. “Of course you don’t. And with you at the helm, how could they possibly catch us?”

  He didn’t say anything. She thought he might ignore her words, for not with a twitch of his cheek nor a flicker of his eyes did he respond. Then, slowly, so slowly she might have missed it but for the fact that she stared at him so hard, she saw his face relax, could actually feel his tension beneath her hand drain away like water in a tide pool. He shifted, his eyes meeting hers, such blue eyes, their color even more spectacular with the sun drifting through them.

  “’Tis going to be difficult, Lucy.”

  “No more difficult than what we’ve faced so far.”

  “You might be captured.”

  “You’ll keep me safe.” She gave him a tremulous smile, hoping, praying, wishing, he could somehow hear what her soul was singing. I love you, Garrick. And I know you’ll keep me safe, no matter what happens.

  She wanted, oh how she wanted, to say the words aloud. But for the first time in her life she lacked the courage to say what was in her heart. She was afraid to reach for the moon. Afraid she might come up empty-handed. So she settled for telling him without words, moving her body closer so that it brushed against his. She saw the look in his eyes change: it began to flicker, then burn.

  “Kiss me,” she murmured.

  He didn’t move, just stood alongside of her gazing into her eyes as if he’d never look away. “Yes,” he finally said. “I deserve a kiss … for luck.”

  For luck? Idiot man. Couldn’t he tell there was much more to it than—

  He jerked her to him. She gasped. He crushed his lips against hers.

  Ahhh, Lucy thought. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t such an idiot. She opened her mouth, just as he’d taught her to do. His tongue swept inside. She groaned, the taste of him was so sweet. He made her feel as if she were kissing a bit of heaven, as if she floated among the clouds. She wanted more of that feeling. She rallied her courage to do … that thing, the one she’d read about.

  Sucking in a breath, she placed her hand against him, just as the book instructed.

  He gasped.

  She waited for something—what, she didn’t know—something wonderful, something sure to be incredible, something she knew instinctively the book didn’t explain. Just to be sure she got whatever it was, she stroked him. He gasped again. She stroked him again. This time he groaned, a long, wonderful groan. And then, yes, she was sure of it, he began to grow, to harden. Amazement made her stiffen. He stiffened, too. Realization of where her brother’s stallion had gotten its fifth appendage suddenly dawned. And then thoughts of horses galloped away as he tilted his head, coaxed her tongue into his mouth, and sucked on it.

  “Gawittth,” she moaned, then all but fell to her knees as little tiny explosions went off inside her. Her mind, her breasts … gracious, between her legs. She hardly noticed as he pressed her against a wall, only wanted him to keep doing that thing with his mouth. She stroked him harder—and he responded by placing his hand between their bodies and stroking her back.

  Things began to happen quickly then, things she’d only ever dreamed about, or perhaps half-known but never understood. Her body began to tremble, her ears to pound. Sensations pulsed through her body, left her aching, burning.

  He drew away. Lucy gasped in a breath of Garrick. Bereft at the loss of contact, she stared up at him, panting. He gazed down at her, his big, manly chest heaving, too.

  Slowly, she became aware of things, things that weren’t Garrick. The sound of waves as they hit the side of the ship. The rocking beneath her. The moan of the wind through the windows.

  She thought he would say something, was hoping he’d say something, but then he looked up sharply, almost as if something had caught his attention.

  She turned, still befuddled by what had passed between them. Still thinking that she could reach her hand out and do it again, that he would, in turn, do that to her again, only this time she wouldn’t let him stop.

  A spot of white caught her attention. She stiffened. A gasp escaped past swollen lips.

  Sails, their rectangular shape distinct against the rose-colored horizon, hovered in the distance. They looked to be less than a mile away.

  “Go to your cabin,” he ordered.

  She turned back to him. Honest to goodness pirates were trailing their wake. And though she knew she shouldn’t feel it, excitement once again surged through her. Oh, not the same kind of excitement she felt when Garrick touched her—this was different. “Garrick, don’t make me leave. I can help.”

  “Shhhh, Lucy.” He placed a finger against her lips.

  She shushed.

  “I need you to take care of Beth and Tom.”

  Her eyes widened. Well, when he put it that way.

  He reached out and cupped the side of her face, the gesture so familiar, so dear. And as she’d done before, she tilted her cheek into his hand.

  “Go. We’ll talk about this later.”

  This, he’d said. Did he mean the “this” that pulsed in the air between them? Or the “this” that had happened when he’d touched her private parts, and she touched his? Lucy wasn’t sure.

  “Go,” he repeated.

  She almost said no, but he glanced beyond her, his eyes fixing on the pirate ship. And against her better judgment, she went.

  All night long they tried to outrun the pirates. Still, the sails loomed larger and larger behind them, the moonlight seeming to set the sheets aglow.

  “They’ll catch us by morning,” Calico mumbled despondently from alongside of Garrick.

  Garrick nodded from his position by the rail, staring out over the stern of the ship as if he could will the enemy ship to perdition. Damn Belial. But he’d not give up without a fight. Not while there was a breath left in his body. Fear was unacceptable. Fear slowed your reflexes. Fear could lead to failure, and he refused to fail Lucy, Lucy who was magnificent in her courage, who kissed him as a woman ought, and who would one day, despite her propensity for disaster, make someone a fine wife.

  “Too bad that bloody moon won’t go away,” the old sailor continued. “We could turn in another direction and be away from them like that.” He snapped his finger.

  Garrick nodded, then looked up at the offending moon turning the tips of waves into silver ribbons. Two mountainlike clouds flanked its sides. Unfortunately those cloudshad yet to move in front of it, nor would they if Garrick didn’t miss his guess. Not for the first time he wished he’d been sent back with some sort of special powers, but he had none. They’d sent him back as a mortal in every sense, a mortal forced to do battle with immortals.

  Belial. The name hung on the tip of his tongue, softly uttered, never forgotten.

  “What could they want, m’lord? They ain’t never even got a good look at us, yet they’re pursuin’ us as if they expect we got treasure aboard.”

  “They’re after the boy,” Garrick explained.

  “The boy?”

  “Tom.”

  Calico looked stunned. “Tom? But why would they wants ‘im?”

  As quickly as possible, Garrick explained, Calico’s eyes wide when he’d finished. “I’ll need you to hide him when the time comes, Calico. The ladies, too, of course. Have you a place?”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Been used a time or two before. Usually for the cap’n’s good brandy, but I wager it’ll work just as well fer the ladies an’ boy.”

  Garrick nodded, his expression fierce as he turned back to stare at the approaching ship, his thoughts once again on Lucy. He would move heaven and earth to keep her safe, to live up to the faith she had in him, faith that he could save them all from the very devil himself.

  “This waiting is interminable,” Beth blurted.

  “What’s intermiteable mean?”

  “It means unbearable,” Lucy explained to Tom, exchanging an anxious glance with Beth.

  They were all ensconced in the cabin, Lucy having obeyed Garrick’s order to keep her eye on her frie
nds. Beth sat in her bed, her blue gown so wrinkled it looked to be made out of crumpled paper. Tom sat in the hammock, his eyes narrowed on Beth. They’d been snipping at each other all morning, not surprising since none of them had gotten any sleep.

  “Why didn’ she just say so?” Tom mumbled.

  “Hush, Tom,” Lucy ordered when Beth looked ready to snap at him.

  The boy didn’t appear happy about it, but he dropped into silence, his feet swinging back and forth.

  Lucy looked out the porthole, but she could see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Frustration rose within her. She was used to action. She was used to charging into things. She was used to handling problems, not avoiding them. Despite the pride she felt that Garrick had asked for her help, his insistence that they all remain in the cabin chafed like the bindings of a rope.

  It continued to chafe, until, a half hour later, unable to stand it a moment longer, she shot up from the bed and crossed to the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Lucy, you can’t go out there!”

  “I’m goin’, too,” Tom called.

  Lucy paused, hand on the door. “No, Tom. You stay here and guard Beth. She needs a man to protect her.”

  “Needs a man ta do more’n that,” the boy grumbled, but stayed nonetheless.

  “Beth, I’ll be back in a moment. I promise.”

  She turned away, hurriedly closing the door behind her. The hallway beyond was as dark as a tomb. She took a moment to let her eyes adjust.

  BOOM!

  Lucy yelped, her heart jolting in her chest. Beth screamed on the other side of the door. The deck beneath them shuddered.

  “Oh dear.” Gulping, she firmly ignored the wild beat of her heart and forced her leaden feet to move. One goal centered in her mind. Garrick.

  Outside, the deck teamed with chaotic activity. Off to her left, less than a quarter mile away, sailed the enemy ship, a Jolly Roger waving at them from its main mast. Lucy felt her stomach drop to somewhere about the level of the ocean floor. The pirates had caught them. Shouts rang out. Men, their expression frantic, scurried about.

  Garrick stood amid them like a mountain rising from a turbulent sea. He bellowed at one of the crew members, his face red with anger, each of his words punctuated with a stab of his finger. The hapless recipient of his tirade stared down at the deck, misery written on his face. Lucy was in time to catch his hurried apology.

  “Perhaps you’ll think before you act next time.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sailor snapped to attention.

  BOOM!

  Garrick turned. “Port rudder!” he yelled.

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

  Lucy felt her heart flip-flop in her chest. She flung herself down atop a knobby deck just as the wheel spun toward the left. Once again the deck shuddered beneathher, the sail creaking in protest. She covered her ears and scrunched her eyelids closed.

  Silence.

  Well, not silence, really. There were feet scuffling by, and in one case over her. A crew member yelled at another. Gingerly, she opened her eyes.

  A pair of scuffed black boots stared back at her. She pushed herself onto an elbow and peered up.

  Garrick glared down at her. He was not pleased. She knew that because he didn’t say a word, just stared down at her as if he couldn’t decide whether to throttle her or throw her overboard. It was a look she was used to seeing on her Aunt Cornelia’s face.

  “Lucy, what in the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Cap’n,” a burly sailor interrupted before she could get a word in. Garrick turned to face the man. “Cap’n, we’ve got the cannon ready to fire.”

  Garrick’s face turned a vivid, molten red. “Well? What in the hell are you waiting for? Fire the damn thing!” He turned back to her.

  BOOM!

  Lucy didn’t even think. She flung herself at Garrick.

  “Port rudder!” Garrick yelled, his voice ringing in her ears like the bells of St. Mary’s parish.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” came the familiar call. The boat creaked, the sails groaned as the bow of the ship tilted again.

  It was a second or two later before she noticed the whistling. She reared back in surprise.

  “Get down!”

  Shocked, Lucy found herself practically thrown to the briny-smelling deck. The whistling grew louder. Out of thecorner of her eye she caught sight of crew members throwing themselves atop the oak planks, the sound of their bodies hitting the deck echoing in her ears.

  She could see nothing with Garrick’s big body covering her, practically crushing her, really. Under normal circumstances she would have been delighted to find herself in such a position. Now her heart beat in fear wildly. She was somewhat relieved when he slowly moved off her, but when she looked around, her eyes widened. The rail was broken not five feet from where they lay. The edges of it smoked ominously.

  Garrick became a flurry of activity as he pushed himself to his feet, tugging Lucy up with him. “Haul of all port, now!” He boomed. “Starboard rudder, now! Someone put that damn fire out!”

  The men wasted not a second in complying.

  Lucy watched, mouth agape, as they rushed to the lines angling above her head. Their muscles bulged with strain as they pulled, the giant sails above her slowly tilting to the right. Suddenly, the wind caught the sheets, and the effect was immediate. The Swan, groaning with strain, quickly pitched to the side; her bow pointed suddenly and with dizzying speed to the right. The world tilted crazily. Everything from empty sea barrels to coils of rope slid past her with screeches of protest, the ship’s yaw so violent the view over the left railing was clear blue sky.

  She gulped.

  BOOM!

  Lucy flinched, but was too frightened to throw herself to the angled deck, her fear of rolling into the seagreater than her fear of getting hit by a cannonball. Once again she heard the strange whistling. Just then a black streak whizzed into the blue sky on her left, exactly where the ship would have been if not for Garrick’s quick maneuver.

  “Ease off!” he bellowed.

  The men quickly complied, and the deck started to slowly level. It was the most incredibly coordinated, amazing thing she’d ever witnessed. She turned to stare at Garrick, mouth agape. She forgot all about evil pirates and stray cannonballs as she gazed at the man she loved, a man who had undergone an almost frightening transformation in the last few minutes. He was magnificent. His blonde hair flew about his head like a golden halo; the breadth of his shoulders strained against his shirt. He stood giving orders, quickly, succinctly, and with absolute calm. He looked … invincible. That is, until he turned toward her—then he looked furious. “Get below, Lucy, now!”

  She nodded, dazedly, not even flinching when another cannon blast sounded.

  Smoke, its rank sulfuric smell emanating from the deck below, hung over the Swan like the lid of a coffin. The battle-scarred ship fluttered upon the water, a wounded bird struggling to stay afloat. The Revenger was so close now Garrick could see men scurrying about its deck like ants spilled from a bottle, many of them clasping weapons. He clenched his own cutlass and glanced at his men.

  Calico stood alongside him, rivulets of sweat born of fear and anxiety making their way down his face. His eyes moved beyond him to the tense faces of his men. All were staring at the approaching ship, the deck unnaturally quiet; only the sighs of the ship and the rhythmic slap of the ocean could be heard over the rustle of the giant sails hanging in tatters above their heads.

  Soon now, Garrick thought. Soon, they would be boarded. He looked back at the Revenger, then glanced up to the black and white skull and crossbones waving from its mainmast, a vivid reminder of the skill and cunning of his enemy.

  They had tried to outrun the pirate ship for over two hours, but the Swan had been like a minnow with a shark chasing at its fins. Every move Garrick tried had been instantly countered with a skill Garrick had rarely witnessed. Lucien St. Aubyn. Obviously the duke knew how to sail a ship as well as he wie
lded a gun.

  Garrick slapped his hand on the rail in frustration, furious at the fates which would test him in such a way, thus putting in danger a woman with more courage than a good portion of his crew. He was an angel, for God’s sake, surely there must be something he could do! Unfortunately, his only option was to hope like hell he could survive the coming battle.

  “Won’t be long now,” Calico grumbled.

  Garrick nodded.

  “John’s hoistin’ the white flag as we speak.” Calico continued, brow furrowed. “Do ya think they’ll fall for it, Cap’n?”

  “It’s worked before,” Garrick grunted. “And the Swan looks battered enough they might believe we’ll surrender. ‘Tis worth a try.”

  “At least the women and the boy are hidden,” Calico mumbled.

  The corner of Garrick’s mouth tilted, not into a smile. He was too tired, too frustrated to attempt that. It was more of a smirk as he remembered Lucy’s cursing when he firmly, yet gently shoved her beneath his bed, Beth and Tom piled in next to her. She had ranted and raved when he’d nailed the boards into place, her fury with him clear in the banging of her fists against the thick wood. Livid was a more apt description. She hadn’t wanted to hide. She had wanted to help, and God help him, he had wanted to let her, but he needed Lucy to protect the boy. He only hoped it never came to that.

  “She’s a bonnie one, Cap’n,” Calico said, seeming to read his mind.

  “Aye, Calico, she is.” Garrick’s hand clenched around his cutlass so tightly he felt the leather hilt bite into his flesh. God help them if they fell into the enemy’s hands. God help them all.

  15

  Lucien St. Aubyn studied the Swan for any sign that the white flag waving from its standard was a trap. Not that the Revenger would have a problem overpowering the smaller vessel were that indeed the case, but it seemed odd that there was a such a small number of men visible on deck.

  “Stand to your stations, men,” he called, following Tully’s gaze. The pirate looked the quintessential rogue with his left hand tucked into a belt with six small pistols shoved behind it.