by ML Guida
“Doc will attend you,” he said matter of fact.
She nodded, but didn’t utter a word.
Kane’s strides, as he headed to the door, were long and purposeful. His sculpted sinews on his back flexed and tensed with each movement. He grabbed the doorknob and her stomach clenched.
She flipped the blanket away from her.
Kane glanced over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting out of bed.” She rolled onto her side and sat up, but the cabin whirled around. “I want…” She shook her head. “Wait. I just need to sit for a minute.” Her voice faded.
“No, you’re not.”
She lifted her eyebrow. “Excuse me?” She wanted to be with him. Find out what his brother knew.
“You get off that bed and I’ll tie you to it.”
“What? You would not dare.”
He turned around and folded his arms across his wide chest. His eyes held hers. “Try me.”
She put a foot on the floor and he marched over to his dresser. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t have time for this, Hannah.” He threw open a drawer and yanked out two head scarves. “You’re not yourself and need to stay in bed.”
“You’re serious?”
Holding the blue and black scarves, he approached her.
She moved to the other side of the bed. “Wait, stay away from me.”
Kane lunged and caught her left wrist. She yanked, but he tightened his grip. “No,” she said. He pulled her to him, crushing her to him. He stared at her, his breath washing over her. Her heart pounded. “Please,” she whispered.
He clamped his jaw tight. His firm hand clutched her shoulder and with his muscular body, he forced her to lie on her back. She stared at his lips, remembering how delicious he tasted. Was he going to kiss her? She sucked in her breath in anticipation.
He pushed her hair off her cheeks, his brief touch sending heat through her, comforting her, calming her. “Lass, you are delirious and need to stay here.”
His silky hair brushed her skin. She half parted her lips. He leaned closer, but he shook his head. Before she knew was happening, he jerked away from her and bound her wrist with the blue scarf to the slats that pulled back the drapes, hiding the bed.
“Kane,” she said. “No. Release me.”
“You’ll stay here.”
She searched his hard face. “No! I. Will. Not.”
“Aye, you will,” he said softly.
Her heart beat hard, her breath rapid as he tied her other wrist to the other bedpost. Imprisoned her in a pirate's bed.
Opening her eyes, she pulled on the tightly bound scarves that bit into her wrists. She tilted her head. “This isn’t humorous.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t intend to be." He covered her with the blanket. "Doc will be along shortly. I promise.”
“Please, I want to hear what your brother says.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead as a father would a child. She wasn’t a child and he was definitely not her father. She wanted more than a fatherly kiss from Kane. She wanted to taste his lips again. Gritting her teeth and with her mounds of frustration, she yanked on the scarves, not caring how much they pinched into her skin. She didn’t know whether her frustration was from being tied to the slats or Kane failing to kiss her.
He stood. “As soon as I find out, I’ll come back to tell you. Understand?”
She twisted her right wrist, but her bonds only tightened further. “Kane, this isn’t necessary. I promise I’ll stay in bed.”
He laughed, put his hands on his hips, and cocked his eyebrow high. “Lass, do I look like I’ve gone away with the fairies?”
She glowered. “What?” She shook her head. “No, you look like a suffering, torturing pirate who likes to tie up innocent women.”
His eyes turned somber. He ran his hand down her leg and she wished the blanket was gone. “Aye, I do like to tie up lasses,” he said, his voice husky. “But usually, they enjoy it and beg me to do what I please.”
An image of her naked, tied to his bed and Kane kissing her and sucking her, flamed the heat on her cheeks. Wetness formed between her legs and she shifted, uncomfortable with her own thoughts. Where had that image come from? What was it with this pirate that she indulged in sinful thoughts?
He yanked his hand away as if she were on fire. “I’ll be back.” He hurried across the cabin, whipped open the door and left.
Hannah stared at the cabin door, not believing he left or why she was disappointed he hadn’t kissed her. Had he been thinking of another woman he wanted to tie to the bed? He had said he liked Irish lasses warm and wiggling beneath him. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her when she was completely helpless.
She yanked on her bonds, but the scarves held tight. Closing her eyes, she drew on her power, her rapid heart slowed, tingles raced over her skin. Untie the scarves.
The scarf holding her right hand softly slipped around the right wrist, but the left one tightened, biting into her skin. Tingles faded. Her heartbeat increased. Wetness dripped from her nose and ran into her mouth. Blood. No.
Hannah opened her eyes and jerked on her right hand, breaking through the scarf, but her left wrist turned numb, her fingers twitching. She clawed at the scarf until she was free.
A slight rap drew her attention.
“Yes?” Hannah answered.
“’Tis Doc.”
Doc came into the room, carrying a tray loaded with a steaming bowl of chicken soup, a teapot, and a cup. “Grand, you’re awake, lass. I thought you might have fallen back asleep.”
The bump on the back of her head pounded and her temples throbbed. His jovial voice droned on and she tried to breath. Stay calm. Power, stay back.
But tingles rushed over her flush skin. She sat up straight. No. Too late. The same cross fell off Kane’s desk.
Doc frowned. “’Tis strange. Never seen this happened before. Thing's as heavy as an anchor.”
He picked up the cross and placed it on Kane’s desk.
Hannah licked her lips. He had to leave. What if she lost control again and moved something else and he told Kane? Her hands trembled.
Doc came back with a bowl of soup in his hands, placed it in her lap and patted her head. “Ah, you look like you don got da chills. Try to eat, lass.”
If he only knew…
She glanced at the bowl of hot chicken soup, brimming with bits of potatoes, chicken, and carrots in a yellow broth. The aroma teased her stomach, but knots twisted in her gut. “I’m not hungry.”
“I swear you’ll feel better,” Doc said. He studied her. “Are you pain in lass?”
Hannah blinked. “What?”
“You don got a terrible frown an’ your face is pale.”
“No, I’m fine.” Tingles swished over her again. She shook her head and clutched her fists.
Stay back.
“You need to pick up da spoon an’ dip it into da soup,” Doc urged. He motioned with his hand as if he held a spoon in his hand and brought it to his lips, slurping like a hungry pig.
Hannah blinked. The tingles faded and she relaxed her fists. She burst out laughing—a tall pirate, trying to cajole her into eating soup as if she were a little child. A belly laugh took over Hannah, tears formed in her eyes.
“’Tis good to hear you laugh, lass,” Doc said.
She wiped her cheeks. “I don’t know why that was so funny.”
He smiled. Hannah smiled, too. She controlled her power. But she couldn’t go on like this. She had to convince these men she wasn’t a threat. She frowned. But how?
Chapter Eight
Zuto tightened his grip on Maketabori’s vibrating choker. He hated the damn thing. It reverberated with evil.
Pink-colored clouds rolled across the sky as the sun slowly set on the ocean. Waves rolled onto the beach and he smiled. He strolled over to the edge of the beach and stepped onto the wet sand. Water and sand swirled around his bare feet, tugging him
into the sea. He never tired of the sensation. One day, he’d be free.
A foul stench broke into his reverie. Tearing away from the setting sun, he gritted his teeth and stared down his beach. With their heads lowered, Palmer and his boatswain, Stephen Johnson, meandered toward him.
Zuto glared. “You failed to locate the Soaring Phoenix.”
Sighing, Palmer answered. “Aye. We’ve searched different ports, but have not been able to find any trace of the Phoenix. We interviewed…”
“Liar, you tortured people. When are you going to learn torture leads to defiance?”
Palmer straightened his shoulders. “I’ve…”
“Idiot.” Zuto tossed the choker at him. “Here. Take this.”
Palmer caught the gold choker in midair. Holding it up the sun, he frowned. “What is it?” He moved the choker in the rays of the setting sun, the eight diamonds changed colors from red to purple to white to pink-colored. Palmer’s eyes glittered with greed.
Zuto folded his arms across his chest. “’Tis called a yari.”
Palmer gazed at the yari. “A what?” He fondled each diamond and licked his lips.
Zuto shook his head. Men’s greed sickened him. Coaybay was crowded with black souls of greed. “A yari traps magical power, binds it. The diamonds are real, but don’t even think of removing them. The minute you do, they will burn into your skin like fire. The fire of Coaybay burns inside them. When the wearer puts on a yari, the diamonds latch onto the neck like leeches. Any attempt to remove it will result in the wearer’s neck being severed.”
Johnson rubbed his neck and moved away from Palmer who glanced at him and chuckled. Palmer gently caressed the foul choker like he was petting a woman’s breast.
Zuto snapped his fingers in front of Palmer’s face. “Palmer!”
He jerked to attention.
“Go to Tortugas,” Zuto commanded. “And find a family called Fey. They live on the rocky edge of the mountain. Find the young man, Lark, but not the old woman or girl. They’re too powerful. You need to say, Bohiti.”
At the word “Bohiti, all the diamonds changed to sparkling blood red rubies.
“Witches?” Palmer’s face turned dark.
Zuto arched his eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”
“Why?” Palmer gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust them and won’t allow one aboard my ship.”
Zuto rolled his eyes. How long did he have to work with these imbeciles? “By wearing the yari, a witch will be under your control.”
Palmer gave him a doubtful look, but kept his mouth shut. Zuto could care less what he thought. He was the messenger, carrying out Maketabori’s orders like a good demon solider.
Johnson eyed the changing stones and grumbled, “Why do we need a witch? No one can defeat us.”
Fool. He never got used to the man's idiocy. “You need a witch. If not, you die. Your call.”
Palmer frowned. “You mean Knight’s daughter?”
“No, she’s not a witch. She’s not controllable, but a witch’s a different matter.”
Johnson glared and an ugly sneer formed on his thin face. “If we need a witch or a warlock, what good are you?”
Zuto clenched his toes in the sand and tensed. He snapped his fingers. “Despicable.”
Johnson’s hands flew up to his neck and his spidery fingers squeezed. His eyes bulged, tears streaked his hollowed cheeks, and his face turned purple. Screeching like a sea gull, he collapsed onto his knees, falling face first into the sand. He wrestled to pull his hands free, but ’twas futile.
Zuto snapped his fingers again. “Idiot.”
Johnson’s hands fell away from his neck. Rolling onto his side, he coughed and vomited white spittle onto the pristine beach. Sand covered his pale face. Muddy red handprints circled his skinny neck.
Zuto kneeled down on one knee. “You dolt. Of course, I’m more powerful than a mere witch or warlock, but thanks to Maketabori,” he motioned with his hands, “I’m trapped here.” He waved his hand. “Treat me with disrespect again, you die.”
Johnson clawed the sand, scurrying away like a cockroach. Maybe next time, Zuto would change him into one and smash him with his heel. Palmer hauled Johnson off the ground.
Zuto stood and pointed. “Now, go.”
The two men sprinted down the beach. Palmer clutched the yari in his right hand. He would indeed trap the witch and command him or her to do his bidding. If the witch defied him, he'd lock them in the brig and inflict pain. The bastard had countless torture devices—thumb screws, the Iron Maiden, whips, chains—and Palmer would be giddy with desire to use them. More than once, Maketabori had chained Zuto and indulged in his twisted fantasies. Zuto sighed. A wave of pity rushed over him, but he would not stop Palmer. He needed the witch. ’Twas one more step to freedom. Do Maketabori's bidding and be free, or rebel and be his slave forever.
***
Lark Fey finished drinking his mead and slammed his mug onto the table. He leaned back on his chair and stared at the two men in front of him. “So, you’ve been hunting for the Fiery Damsel?”
“Aye, Palmer’s always one step ahead,” William O’Brien answered. He leaned closer, his intense emerald eyes holding his gaze. “What do you know of them?”
Lark shrugged. “They come here now and then. For supplies mostly.” He frowned. “There’s something about them. ’Tis not natural. Grand-mère has seen their true form.” He winced. Damn, what he had done?
William blinked. “What do you mean she has seen their true form?”
Pretending not to notice the suspicious tone, Lark shrugged. “I meant she could read people and they appeared evil to her.”
Ronan MacMillan stared hard and turned to William, exchanging knowing looks. They knew something, but what? When the Fiery Damsel docked, Grand-mère said ’twas a blood moon and the crew was cursed. She had forced him and his sister to remain inside the house and cast a spell locking the doors and windows in their farm house. He hated being treated like a little boy, but his power paled compared to Grand-mère’s. He was only a fledgling, a new witch, but Grand-mère promised he’d be powerful.
Grand-mère had read her tea leaves and said the crew of the Fiery Damsel wasn’t human, but she’d never say what they were, as if he couldn’t handle it. He was a full grown man, not a child. Hadn’t he just celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday? True, his parents had been murdered back in Paris, betrayed, but they were here. Far from the burning stakes.
He wanted to ask the two men more questions, what Grand-mère had hinted at, but they were already on edge. Accuse him of being a witch. He was a witch—a powerful one, but Grand-mère said he was a fool. Not in charge of his powers. Damn her! She was wrong. Why didn’t she ever accuse his younger sister Mariah of not being in charge of her powers?
William glanced at Ronan. Ronan was bulkier than William and kept a watchful on William, although they were similar in age. With his sword and pistol, and muscular build, William looked as though he was able to handle himself. Ronan scanned the Shark Tavern and kept returning to the door. “They’re an unholy lot. When was the last time they were here?”
“A few weeks ago.”
William turned his mug around. “The last full moon?”
“Oui.” A shudder ran through him.
The bartender came over. “’Tis late boys. We’re closing up.”
They nodded and stood. Lark swayed and grabbed the table. He’d been drinking all afternoon, after escaping from Grand-mère’s clutches. He was tired of being treated like a little boy. He was tired of competing with his sister. He was tired of living with Grand-mère.
“You’re well into your cups, lad.” Ronan smirked.
Lark straightened, but over-adjusted and fell to the left. “I can handle myself.”
Catching his arm, Ronan laughed. “Aye, I can see that.”
He and William grabbed Lark’s arms and escorted him out of the Shark’s Tavern. The cool night smacked Lark in the face. He inhal
ed the fresh air, but his head swam and his legs were unsteady as seaweed. “I can walk.”
William shook his head. “We let go, lad, and you’ll fall flat on your face.”
Lark glared. William was no older than he, how dare he infer he wasn’t able to handle himself? “I can…”
“Shite,” Ronan said. “Palmer.”
William and Ronan whipped out their swords.
Lark widened his eyes and shook his head. Five men with blazing red eyes surrounded him. One of them towering over all the rest. The wind blew his red beard and he held something in his right hand. Lark turned to Ronan. “Who?”
“Palmer, the captain of the Fiery Damsel.”
Lark faced the smirking captain. This was his chance to prove to Grand-mère he didn't need her protection. He called on his power, tingles running over his fingers, but the liquor clouded him and his mind swirled, the spell words jumbled. He opened his mouth.
“Bohiti,” the tall man said.
Something wrapped around Lark’s neck, slamming his mouth shut, the spell dying on his lips. He gripped his neck and pulled on a choker, but it remained firm and stuck to his neck like a snake, circling his throat, choking him, cutting off his air. He fell to his knees.
Swords clashed around him. Lark twisted his head and pain shot through his neck, boring into him like hot pokers. He screamed and everything went black.
When he woke, his arms were stretched wide and he was half naked and barefoot. Damp cold gripped him and he shivered. Where the hell were his shirt and boots? The stench of rotting meat and something worse assaulted his senses. Glowing lanterns illuminated torture devices—a wall of shackles and flogs, a thumb screw chair. Someone was strapped to the rack. He shook his head. He recognized him. "Ronan?"
A large figure emerged from the shadows. The large red-headed captain of the Fiery Damsel. Lark pulled on the chains. “Who are you?”
The man cast his gaze over him like he was a beetle to be crushed under his boot. “I’m Captain Palmer, your new master. And you are now my slave.”
“Like hell, I am,” Lark said. “By the power…”
