by Connie Mason
When he reached out a slim, manicured hand and caressed Luca’s breast; Morgan wanted to kill the man. Then he wanted to kill Luca. He knew he deserved her hatred for his callous disregard for her innocence, but didn’t she realize that he truly did care for her? He freely admitted he had used seduction to win her, but she had been a willing participant. He thought he knew Luca, but evidently he hadn’t scratched the surface of her perverse nature.
Luca shied away from Diego’s vile caress and put all her emotions into the look she gave Morgan, but he had already turned away and did not see it. His mind and heart had already dismissed her. She had no choice but to let Diego steer her out the door. But as the door clanged shut behind her, his name left her lips on a ragged sigh. Diego clapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away.
Morgan’s head shot up. He could have sworn that he’d heard Luca call his name. His imagination must be working overtime, he chided himself. It had sounded as if her heart was breaking. He shook his head to clear it of such foolish thoughts. Hadn’t Luca just admitted that she despised him? That she enjoyed seeing him beaten and tortured? She had freely admitted that she had become del Fugo’s mistress. Funny, he mused dimly, he never thought he’d be brought low by a woman
An unnamed ship slipped into Havana under cover of darkness and dropped anchor in the deep harbor. A short time later, a longboat slid away from the ship and glided through the water toward the shore. The longboat reached its destination, depositing its men on the deserted quay. Five men remained inside the boat while two others slipped away and disappeared in the shadows. The two men separated by mutual consent each choosing a different direction. Two hours later the men returned separately to the place where they had left the longboat. They crouched in the vessel, imparting the information they had gleaned to their leader.
“Did you learn anything, Pierre?” Stan Crawford asked.
Pierre, a dark-skinned Frenchman who spoke Both French and Spanish fluently, spat out a vicious oath. “The captain’s here, just like you suspected. He is to be executed tomorrow.”
“Bloody Hell!”
“The governor-general declared a holiday so the entire population of Havana can watch the execution. The whole town is talking about El Diablo. Finding out where he is being held was easy. What did you learn, Ramon?”
“Dios, the whole damn town is eager to see him strung up,” Ramon revealed. Ramon was the only Spanish member of Morgan’s crew and had good reason to hate his countrymen. He had nearly lost his life in the Inquisition “The captain is in the local calabozo awaiting execution.”
Stan gazed at the moon, calculating the hours left before dawn. “We don’t have a helluvalot of time to rescue Morgan and return to the Avenger. You men were chosen for your ability to work under pressure. Are you with me?”
“Aye, Mr. Crawford,” the men echoed in unison, “we’re with ye.”
“What about the woman?” Crawford asked his spies. “Do either of you know what has become of her?”
Pierre aimed a dirty stream of tobacco juice into the water. “Forget the little slut. Rumor has it that she is already warming the governor-general’s bed. It’s amazing what you can learn in an alehouse. There ain’t no talk about a wedding, either.”
“It’s just as well,” Crawford said bitterly. “We’ll be lucky to get Morgan out alive, let alone the woman. Where’s the calabozo?”
A short time later, seven armed men crept through the dark to the squat building that served as a jail. They traveled in single file, darting from doorway to doorway. Crawford led the way, his hand curved around the hilt of his sword. He halted the group within sight of the calaboose, where they squatted behind some thick bushes, sizing up the situation. Crawford counted two guards lounging against the door, their weapons hanging loosely in their hands. After a silent signal from Crawford, Pierre and Ramon crept stealthily toward the inattentive guards. Sneaking up from behind, they swiftly put the guards out of commission, then dragged them off into the bushes, where they exchanged clothes and took their places.
Crawford cautiously opened the jailhouse door and peered inside. The flickering light from a single candle revealed only two men seated at a table playing cards. They had timed it perfectly. Obviously the other guards were out making rounds and weren’t expecting company. And if by chance unwanted company did show up, the guards posted outside the door were expected to dispatch them.
Crawford paused in the doorway and motioned his men to follow him. One by one they slipped through the door into the guardroom. Crawford did not have to tell them what to do, for they knew instinctively what was expected of them. The guards seated at the table must have heard something, for they jumped up and reached for their swords. Crawford’s men were on them instantly. The battle was fierce but of short duration. The Spaniards were quickly subdued, bound and gagged, and left lying on the floor. Crawford found a ring of keys hanging on a hook in the guardroom. Two men remained behind in case the absent guards returned while the others followed Crawford.
Morgan heard scuffling in the passageway but paid it little heed. There were always comings and goings of one kind or another in this evil place. If they were coming for him he hoped it was to end his life, not torture him further with the cat. Or worse yet, taunt him with the knowledge that Luca had ordered his beating. That cut him deeper than the leather thongs plied to his back.
“Morgan, psst, answer me if you’re in there.”
Morgan swiveled his head toward the locked door. He feared that the severe beating he had endured was causing him to hallucinate. Mayhap the Devil had come to claim him.
“Morgan, it’s Stan Crawford. Answer if you’re able. God’s blood, man, we must flee quickly before we are discovered.”
“Stan?” His mouth was so dry he could barely speak above a whisper. He prayed it was enough. ‘Tn here, Stan Do you have a key?”
Relief shuddered through Stan. He had no idea when the guard changed or how many hours were left before dawn. “Aye, I have a key.”
“I’m wearing shackles, Stan. I hope you have a key for those too.”
The door opened with a resounding crash. Stan held a candle aloft, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The candle nearly flew from his hand when he saw Morgan slumped against the wall, supported by the chains binding him.
Stan sucked in his breath as he took in the pitiful condition of Morgan’s lacerated flesh, his swollen face, and his split lip. He swallowed convulsively. “Bloody Hell, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“I’m not feeling very lucky, my friend. Do you have the key, Stan? Quickly, there’s much to be done before taking the Avenger home.”
Trying one key after another, Stan finally found the one that sprung Morgan’s fetters. Once he was free, Morgan fell against him, unable to support his own weight. “Can you walk?” Stan whispered. “Lean against me.”
Morgan staggered and grit his teeth against the stabbing pain of his lacerated flesh. One eye was swollen shut, but his good eye was focused and steady. He nodded grimly. “I can walk.”
“Let’s go then.” Stan took the lead. Morgan followed close behind. The passageway was quiet. When they reached the guardroom, Morgan’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile when he saw that his crewmen had the situation well in hand. Stan, Morgan, and the crewmen slipped out the door and were joined by the two men who had stood guard outside.
Crawford moved purposefully toward the waterfront where their longboat waited. He urged Morgan forward, but Morgan balked, refusing to accompany Crawford to safety.
“Bloody Hell, Morgan, what is it? Do you need help?”
‘There is something I need to do first,” Morgan said in a voice so filled with venom Crawford was glad he wasn’t the recipient of Morgan’s anger.
“Shit, Morgan, you can’t get to del Fugo. Forget the bastard, he isn’t worth your life.”
Morgan’s eyes grew flinty; his face was stark with an emotion Crawford had never seen in him before. �
�It isn’t del Fugo I want.”
“Not del Fugo? Who?” Suddenly it dawned on him. “No, Forget her. Leave her to her lover.”
“Luca is my wife, Stan. I cannot leave Havana without my ‘loving’ bride.” He laughed harshly when he saw the stunned look on Crawford’s face. “Prepare the Avenger. If I don’t return by dawn, sail without me.”
“When did Luca become your wife? Rumor has it she’s del Fugo’s…”
“… Mistress. I know. Nevertheless, she’s my wife. We were married by a priest aboard her brothers’ ship. I’ll tell you all about it when I return from my ‘rescue’ mission.”
“Those beatings must have addled your brain, Morgan. The governor-general’s mansion is well guarded, you couldn’t possibly get inside without being seen or heard. You are in no condition to rescue anyone but yourself.”
Morgan’s lips thinned in determination. “I’m still captain, Mr. Crawford. Are you going to obey orders?”
Crawford stared at Morgan in consternation. The longer they stood there arguing, the greater their risk of being caught. But he could see that Morgan was determined, and that was putting it mildly.
“Very well, Captain, I suppose there is no stopping you. But I’m going with you.”
“I’m going alone, Mr. Crawford, is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Crawford grit out from between clenched teeth.
“Remember, if I’m not back by dawn, you’re to sail without me. Give me a sword.” Someone thrust a sword and scabbard into his hand, and he strapped it around his waist.
“Not bloody likely,” Crawford muttered beneath his breath as he watched Morgan disappear around a building. When Morgan was out of sight, he spoke briefly to his men and took off after his captain. He never considered the consequences for disobeying orders, for he thought Morgan had lost his sense of reason. A man in Morgan’s weakened condition had to be out of his mind to storm an enemy stronghold single-handedly. And Crawford was crazier still to think he could save his misguided captain from self-destruction.
Luca spent the entire evening in prayer. If God performed a miracle and spared Morgan’s life, she would never ask another thing for herself again. She would accept whatever fate dealt her and be grateful that Morgan’s life had been spared. On the other hand, if God allowed Morgan’s death, she prayed for the courage to end her own life and join him in eternity.
After she had returned from the calaboose, Don Diego had left her to her own devices. He coolly informed Luca that he had decided to restrain his lust for her until after her husband had been put to death. A weeping woman would spoil his pleasure.
Luca was grateful for that small reprieve and had spent the rest of the evening at her devotions. If prayer alone could save Morgan, she reasoned, his salvation was assured. Unfortunately God worked in mysterious ways, ways she didn’t pretend to understand. God had made her love the pirate, hadn’t He?
Ignoring the tray of food sent to her room after she failed to appear at dinner, Luca remained on her knees far into the night. When exhaustion left her swaying dizzily and in danger of toppling over, she left her prayer bench and staggered through the open door to the gallery overlooking the garden. How peaceful it looked, she thought stretching her weary muscles. Her insides were coiled as tight as a corkscrew; not even prayer had dispelled the tension gripping her. But the crushing thought of Morgan’s impending death sent her back to her prayer bench.
Morgan climbed the garden wall and dropped heavily on the ground below. Pain splintered through him; his body felt as if it was being torn apart. Setting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet and tried to gather his scattered wits. Glancing upward, he saw a flank of dark windows facing a gallery on the second floor. He assumed most of those rooms were bedrooms, and wondered how in Hell he was going to find Luca’s room. If she was in bed with del Fugo he’d take great pleasure in killing the bastard. He prayed for strength.
He was still staring intently at the second-floor windows when a small figure appeared on the gallery. The breath slammed against Morgan’s ribs and he blinked repeatedly, fearing his eyes were playing tricks on him. Luca! Mesmerized, he watched as she stretched, stared into the garden for a brief moment, then turned and disappeared into the room directly behind her. If Morgan had ever doubted there was a God, he no longer did.
Morgan crept toward the house with grim purpose, noting with satisfaction the thick vines clinging to the walls of the brick mansion. They appeared stout enough and strong enough to support his body. He neither hesitated nor considered the consequences as he grasped a handful of vines and climbed painfully upward, unaware that Crawford was close on his heels, having scaled the garden wall in time to see Morgan cautiously ascend the vines to the second-floor gallery. Crawford crept through the dark garden, watching with bated breath as Morgan reached the top safely.
Morgan stepped lightly over the rail onto the gallery. He could see directly into the room where Luca had disappeared. A votive light flickered dimly before a statue of the Blessed Virgin, illuminating Luca’s kneeling form. Her eyes were closed, her head bent piously. If Morgan didn’t know better, he’d think she was the most holy of women. She had fooled him once, but it wasn’t going to happen again, he vowed. Nun, indeed! She was a hot little witch who couldn’t wait to get another man between her thighs once she had been relieved of her virginity. She had fallen into del Fugo’s bed like a ripe plum while awaiting her husband’s death. Hatred shimmered through him, alive and pulsating. He was tempted to wring her lovely little neck. But an emotion he preferred not to confront prevented him from throttling his own wife.
Morgan stepped into the room. Despite his exhaustion, regardless of his weakened state and brutally abused body, his footsteps were light and noiseless as he approached Luca. He was so close now he could smell the sweet scent of her flesh, feel her heat radiating outward to engulf him. Lust slammed through him, and he suppressed a groan This was the woman who wanted his death, he reminded himself. This was the woman who fell eagerly into del Fugo’s arms.
“Luca.” He bent low, whispering her name.
Luca heard and turned her head. Shock shuddered through her. She exhaled sharply, her face suffused with incredible joy when she saw Morgan standing behind her. When she realized she wasn’t fantasizing, that Morgan was indeed flesh and bone, she reached out to him. “Morgan, how…”
Morgan acted swiftly, before Luca could cry out and alert del Fugo. He clipped her on the jaw, and she went out like a light. He regretted resorting to physical violence, but he had no choice. If Luca hated him as she’d indicated during her visit to the calaboose, she wouldn’t have hesitated to scream for help. He would have had no chance at all against del Fugo’s guards.
Morgan let out a grunt of pain as he tossed Luca over his shoulder. Despite his weakness, adrenalin flowed through his veins now, suffusing him with desperately needed strength. He realized belatedly that carrying Luca down the vine-covered wall in his condition was going to drain what was left of his vigor.
Poised on the gallery, Morgan stared down into the dark garden, wondering if he had the fortitude to make it to the bottom with his burden. One foot was already over the rail when a man stepped out from the shadows beneath the gallery. Morgan knew a moment of panic Then he recognized Crawford and dared to breathe again. So much for his men following his orders, he thought—not that he wasn’t damn glad to see his first mate.
“Pass her down to me,” Crawford hissed, indicating that Morgan should drop Luca into his arms.
Morgan hesitated but a moment before lowering Luca’s inert form over the railing and dropping her handily into Crawford’s arms. Morgan followed swiftly, lowering himself over the rail and clambering down the vines.
“Go ahead, I’ll carry Luca,” Crawford whispered, alarmed by Morgan’s pallor. It surprised him that Morgan had accomplished so much after the brutal beatings he had endured. It must have taken enormous will and fortitude.
They reached the garden wall,
and Crawford handed the still unconscious Luca to Morgan while he scaled the rough stone edifice. He had checked the gate earlier and found it securely locked against intruders, forcing them to leave the same way they had arrived. Crawford reached the top, let out a low curse, and scrambled down again. “A patrol,” he hissed, urging caution as the sound of footsteps grew louder.
They crouched at the foot of the wall until the patrol passed. Then Crawford rose cautiously and lifted himself atop the wall. indicating that all was clear, he held out his arms for Luca. Morgan passed his fragile burden to Crawford, who waited for Morgan to join him. Morgan reached the top and dropped to the ground on the other side, holding his sides as pain jolted through him. Then Crawford transferred Luca into Morgan’s arms and lowered himself to the ground. Safely out of the walled garden now, both men moved stealthily among the shadows toward the quay. They had one close call and were forced to take cover when the night watch passed so close they had to hold their breath until he was out of sight.
They reached the quay just as Luca stirred in Morgan’s arms. She moaned softly, and he placed a warning hand over her mouth. “If you cry out, I’ll wring your bloodthirsty little neck.”
The longboat was waiting where Crawford had left it. All hands had arrived back safely and were anxious to return to the Avenger. The moment Crawford, Morgan, and Luca were aboard, the men shoved off. All hands knew it would be only a matter of minutes before Morgan’s escape was discovered and the alarm given. With cannons from shore aimed at them, the Avenger would be a sitting duck in the water.
Once they were a good distance from the shore, Morgan removed his hand from Luca’s mouth. She rubbed her jaw and glared at him. “You didn’t have to hit me.”
“I had to make certain you wouldn’t cry out for your lover. If I had found you in del Fugo’s bed, I would have killed him.”
