A Kiss in the Wind

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Frightened by the scene unfolding before her, she brought up her legs and crouched on the cat head. She needed to get midship. She had to help. Those men were in danger and she had to do something.

  Standing up, her right foot slipped off the beam and she toppled forward. She flung out her arms and slammed into the side of the ship. The air burst from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe as she struggled to hang on, clutching the edge of the rail. Her chin smashed into her wrists, but she had to keep her head up. If she slipped lower she’d have no strength to pull herself back up. Falling in front of the vessel, it would plow her over and she would be lost.

  She pawed with her feet for the hull, scraping it with the tips of her shoes. She grunted from the effort of lifting her upper body. It was all she could do to bring herself up an inch or two. Strength gave way, dissipating with her lack of leverage. Landing the ball of her foot to the hull, she took a moment to still, to reclaim her calm.

  She planted the other foot. Another sorry plight I’ve gotten myself into. Her toes dug into her shoes as she slid a foot slowly up the bow, then slid up the other. I won’t scream. I’ll get myself out of this one, I will.

  She would get back on that ship, willing herself to push her body up. Shifting her foot another notch higher, the Gloria dipped on a swell. She lost her footing and slipped once more. She bit her tongue when her chin smacked down upon her wrists. Searing pain and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She let go.

  Something caught her arm. Her weight yanked at her shoulder from which a new pain radiated. She flung her head back to see what had snagged her. Torrid green eyes stared down at her.

  “Give me your other hand.”

  Relief whooshed through her chest and Marisol took Blade’s outstretched hand. He lifted her easily enough to her feet on the bow and, taking her elbow, led her down to the forecastle. She chose a weathered barrel to sit upon, shaking out her arms that burned from the exertion of hanging on for dear life. Midship, the crewmen had pulled the second man from the sea and the topman had safely climbed down from the rigging. ’Twas a lucky thing not losing a man to the sea.

  “Thank you.” Hugging herself, she kneaded her fatigued muscles and tried to catch her ragged breath. “Almost made good on that curse I promised you.”

  Tyburn rubbed at the back of his neck, apparently not amused by her feeble attempt to detach from what could’ve been a dreadful ending to her grossly misunderstood life.

  “Must I always keep an eye on you?” Frustration was etched in the lines of his frown.

  “Am I so unpleasing to look at that it causes you pain?”

  “On the contrary.” His countenance softened. “Your beauty exceeds that of the most gracious of all God’s golden sunsets.”

  An odd sensation fluttered in her stomach as if a mass of butterflies burst free from a flowering bush. Heat steamed her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, a retort perhaps, but the words escaped her. No one had ever said such glorious words about her. Whatever could she say?

  “Beauty such as yours must be heeded most carefully, for it makes a man blind and inadvisable. ’Tis not a position I care to revisit.”

  She knew his meaning. Another woman might take it as a slur. But he meant no disrespect. In fact, Marisol found it flattering. It was her craft to distract with her well-honed feminine wiles. Moreover, she prided herself in her ability to take from others what she needed using her assets, and with none the wiser.

  Accepting his remark along with his smile as praise, she would not forget he had his own acute craft. Left in the path of his craving stare, geysers of heat seethed at all points womanly.

  “Then I shall be wary of the watch from a man whose reputation is morally unrestrained, lest I fall victim to his depraved behavior.”

  “You’d be wise.” Darkness passed over his stare like a cloud blocking out the sun’s bright beams.

  Sounds from excitable shipmates clamoring over the near disastrous events pulled Marisol back to the Gloria. She hadn’t realized the world had fallen away, as though it were her and Blade alone drifting on the vast sparkling ocean. He, too, seemed to refocus on the action around them.

  The rescued men recalled the accidents. They spoke in hurried cadences of invisible hands pushing them, of the breath of death blowing them off the ropes, and heads bobbed with similar stories.

  Beside her, Tyburn shook his head.

  “I’m not clumsy, you know.” She added more to the overture of the crew. “This ship has a shroud of affliction upon it.”

  “I will hear no more talk of this blight,” he told her.

  Tyburn jumped up onto the starboard rail. “Lend me your ears, lads.” He hung from one line as he spoke. “You’ve been yammering like cowards. This mayhem is not some unseen evil. Letting old sea tales and unfounded beliefs soften your brains. Bah. ’Tis your own fault, these burdens. Toss them out with the bilge water. Any more clack about ghost ships and, mark me, next port you’ll be finding your feet dry. There’ll be no sailing under me. Am I clear?”

  Marisol watched the taut workings of his face as he emanated his anger and frustration toward his crew.

  “There is no evil on board other than the evil spawned by our name and cultured in our hearts. Rightfully so, I’d say.” He drew his cutlass and brandished it skyward. “Let us sail with unyielding confidence. We are the terror of all the Caribbean!”

  The men harrumphed and roared, rallying their collective deviant cheers loud enough to send ripples of fear across the ocean surface. Tyburn impressed her by how he relieved the crew’s skittish minds in so few words.

  He hopped off the rail and returned to her side. “I won’t tailor my expectations,” he said. “I require the same from you as I do my men.”

  A simple order, she wouldn’t challenge him. Not if she intended to use him to find her brother. “Very well, Tyburn. No more talk of curses.”

  “Good.” He returned his sword to the green sash wrapped around his waist. His large fingers tied the corded string holding the cutlass in place with dexterous ease. She wondered if he was as deft in all things he handled.

  Too easily he distracted her with the most minute action. And she still wished to see him smile. Focus. You’ve no place for silly stargazing. “Might I ask what you will do once we drop anchor?”

  “About you?” He looked up.

  “Well, yes.”

  “Only circumstance has changed, not the goal.” He propped up a foot to the rim of a cask on which she sat and leaned his arm on his knee. “At least not mine. You will still return to me my cameo.” His casual tone grated against her already sensitive nerves.

  “And what if I cannot?” What if Alain sailed without her?

  “You will give back what has been stolen from me one way or another.” He bent close, stressing his answer as a threat she should take seriously. “You can count on that, love.”

  “What about Monte?”

  “Your brother is no concern of mine.” He stood, ready to move on. “Should I learn the fate of the Gloria’s crew before you have been released from my custody, then I will pass along the information. Otherwise, you are on your own.”

  “Just as before,” she mumbled.

  He studied her for a long moment, nodded once and turned to leave.

  Delicately she touched her tongue with the tip of her finger and felt the gash that had swollen there. The initial pain had given way to a dull pulsating ache.

  “And stay off the bow,” he called over his shoulder. “I may not be there to save you next time.”

  She sighed. She could add Captain Tyburn to her other ailments. He was definitely a pain in her arse.

  Chapter Seven

  Twilight painted the sky in deep shades of blue, ushering in the long creeping shadows. Silence suffocated the incoming night except for Sam turning the oars of the swaying rowboat that carried Marisol and Blade to shore. The water lapped gently at the sides as they crept closer to the docks and the
town beyond, which huddled in the glowing orange embers and rising thin trails of gray smoke. Wet ash besieged Marisol’s nose once they reached the pier.

  She had not before returned to a victimized port after an assault. Never mind the detail that she’d never been allowed to take part in the thrill of plundering. Alain would order her to stay behind on the ship. And he trusted she would not listen, as he should. He’d always assign a guard to keep her locked in her cabin. Poor saps bartered with their earnings to avoid the unlucky job.

  But Luc, her loving Luc, always made sure to bring her a special gift with each pillage. He never let an occasion pass without reinforcing their father’s decision to keep her out of harm’s way and from the action. Madness, danger, terror. No place for his little sister. Besides, he would add, she was certain to get herself into trouble. He sounded a lot like Alain.

  She grabbed Blade’s extended hand and allowed him to pull her up onto the wooden pier. Waiting for Sam to secure the longboat’s rope, she took sight of the quay. They were at the far end, a distance from the main dock. Only one ship remained tethered and it wasn’t Alain’s. Neither were the two anchored in the bay.

  The subdued activity at the center of the docks sent shivers down her spine. There was something wrong, very wrong.

  Her intuition drew her in and she walked toward the small crowd gathered there. A makeshift gallows cross stood amid the onlookers. She swiped at the cold sweat beading upon her forehead. Spanish soldiers posted at attention around the perimeter of the gibbet. She quickened her pace. Five lifeless bodies dangled from the wooden crossbeam, wilted and flaccid. Someone called out her name.

  Dead men on display, a warning. A warning to all looting pirates.

  No.

  She broke into a run, racing down the remainder of the dock, pushing her way through the dreary crowd. Glimpses of dark heads hung at crooked angles that would not afford her a clear look. Brown curls. One definitely had brown curls. The panic blasted through her veins and she frantically shoved her way past somber spectators, bursting through to the front. A hand grabbed her arm, halting her from rushing headlong into a soldier.

  “No!”

  Her panic exploded into a detachment of horror hovering all around her like a leaden shade, as her worst fear became realized. Luc swung slowly around, the full of his body facing her, arms and legs bound. Cuts and blood covered his distorted face, frozen in a slacken frown.

  “Luc.” His name hitched in her throat.

  Voices sounded muffled in her ears. She tried to breathe but a painful lump lodged itself in her chest. She sank to her knees as the spinning world pulled her down into a hollow of nothing. No feeling. No life. No meaning. The blanket of hurt smothered her and swirling black spots blinded her vision. She gasped for air but there wasn’t enough to fill her shrinking lungs.

  An arm wrapped around her, helping her to stay upright.

  Wailing, someone was wailing, a mournful and desperate cry. The sound peeled away her soul. Only till she choked for more of the soiled air did she realize it was her own godforsaken cries she heard.

  My Luc. Why? Oh God, why? Luc.

  She willed herself to see him. The injustice of it. Luc, her beloved Luc, hung without the dignity he deserved. Anger shattered through her and she scrambled to her feet.

  “Get him down!” Tears stung her eyes as she screamed at the soldiers. “Get him down, now!” In a blur of speed, she shoved her way past the soldiers, snatching out one of their swords with both hands in the process. Taking the steps by two up the gallows, she swung the sword high to slice through the rope stretched tight over Luc’s head. His heavy body crumpled to the ground.

  She spun around. The crowd erupted in protest, pulsing forward against the soldiers, calling for a traitor’s head. Her head. Two soldiers aimed their muskets at her and demanded she lay down the sword. Like hell. She tightened her grip on the hilt.

  “Put down the sword, Marisol.”

  Tyburn stood right beside her. She hadn’t realized he’d been there at all. She met his eyes, tender in their sadness. He gently placed a hand over hers and lowered the angle of her sword.

  “But they killed Luc,” she cried.

  “And they will kill you if you don’t put down the sword.” His words rustled her reason, stirring what little sanity she had left.

  The unruly crowd raved on, the soldiers appearing more anxious with each passing second. Luc lay crooked in the dirt below.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him now.” His voice, it sounded so…affected.

  She let him remove the sword from her grip. He kept his gaze locked firmly on her even when he tossed the weapon to the feet of the soldiers. Hot tears flowed freely down her cheeks as he pulled her close to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She hugged him tight, desperate for control.

  Luc is dead. Luc is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Panting again, everything around her began to spin.

  “Come.” He stroked her hair as he pulled back. “It’s not safe for you here.”

  He took her hand and led her down the steps to where Sam stood, parting the crowd with his menacing size and scowling frown. She had no clue how she made it to the end of the docks, back to where the longboat waited. Maybe she floated along the wharf. Certainly her numb legs didn’t carry her there.

  Tyburn made a gesture to Sam, who nodded in turn and gave them distance. He guided her to a batch of wooden crates stacked up on the platform. The damp stench of musty fishing nets grew strong, disturbing the air when he tossed them off the crates. Tiny fish scales glimmered in the pale light of a nearby dock lantern. He swiped them off the box and she sat. Her legs gave out, no longer willing to support her. Tyburn sat with her, quietly, his arm around her. She nestled her head on his shoulder and cried.

  She cried for Luc, cried for her mother, cried for herself. Never again would Luc tease her, fight with her, instruct her, hug her. What was there left but memories? And it was too soon for them. Her soul chafed raw and bled.

  The warmth from Tyburn rubbing her arm spread, thawing the chill that frosted her heart as he let her cry. He had no idea the comfort he brought. Or how thankful she was to him that he said nothing in her grief. There was nothing he could say. Words were veiled attempts to be sympathetic and he couldn’t possibly know how she felt. His silence, his thumb caressing comforting circles on the hand he held, was exactly what she needed.

  When she had no more tears to spill, the sea breeze cooled and dried her wet face. He kissed the top of her head. The simple act bestowed upon her brought a solace unlike any she had ever received. She couldn’t explain it. It felt wholly different than anything her brothers or even Alain had given her when she needed strength.

  “Thank you,” she said to him.

  He brushed aside the damp hair stuck to her cheek. “For what?”

  She pulled back slightly to look him in the eye. “For not abandoning me.” He had to know she meant it.

  His benevolent smile weakened any resolve she had left. Her world had been shattered. Broken pieces lay all around her. She could never put those pieces back together as they were before. Her life would never be the same. And at that very moment, it didn’t matter. All she wanted, all she needed was Blade.

  So close, his mouth. She leaned into him. Parting his lips, he let her waver. Her desire grew too strong. She kissed him. His lips felt soft and wonderful. She suddenly felt as if she’d been starved. She needed more. She needed to be sated. Pressing harder into him, he took control, voraciously feeding her. Grabbing the back of her head, he became wild, pushing his tongue through, probing her mouth. Her mind spun with the dizzying effect of his responsive passion. She opened for him, lapping up every heated morsel, taking all he had to give. She sighed as he broke from their kiss.

  He wanted more, she read it in the way his lips twitched with arousal, felt it in the way his fingers threading through her hair tightened. But he let out a frustrated breath and relaxed his hold.


  “I’m sorry, Marisol. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

  “I’m not.” She still hungered. Yet, when he pulled her into a hug, she knew he would take, or give, no more.

  Just as well. Her bare soul needed time to heal. A wanton pirate with his own charted course would only lead to more misery.

  “Your ship is not here, is it, Marisol? And don’t lie. Those anchored aren’t passenger vessels.”

  She wondered what he would do with her once she gave him the answer. His tenderness would surely disintegrate into anger. It would be what she expected.

  * * *

  Blade leaned his shoulder against the rough brick wall in the shadows across the street from the Harpy Wineskin drinking house. This corner of Puerto Plata went largely unscathed by last night’s riot, as here flourished the port’s belly of scourge. No valuables or treasures could be pinched here. The best rum and carnal women were the preferred riches, just as they were in the rotten abscesses of every town. Those who wished to destroy were more likely to spare favored drowning pools. He watched two men exit the tavern, but he did not move. Not yet.

  He hated to leave Marisol the way he did. She suffered in her pain. He wanted nothing more than to ease her sorrow, to kiss her tears away. Suffering was his to bear. He’d grown tough as old leather hide from its constant battering. God willing, he would take all her agony and accept it as his own if it were to give her happiness and peace. He could have sat with her in his arms all night. And when she kissed him, a fire ignited within him. He didn’t understand it. It burned too hot. He’d had to force himself to stop. She was broken, laid bare, and yet he felt her tangible heat. So close to the point of no return, he wanted to take her right there on the docks. She was damn near irresistible. He’d had to leave her with Sam and Henri, to clear his head.

  What better way to cool off than to solve the challenge of the missing silver.

  Three men came around the corner, pirates from a familiar crew. Blade pushed off the wall and crossed the street as they entered The Harpy Wineskin. Not surprisingly, the place reeked of sweat and ale, sousing him with thoughts of very fine times as he swung open the door. A harpsichord twanged out an upbeat ditty for the dancing girls up on the small dais in one corner of the room. Men closest to the stage offered the pretty lasses flipping their dresses and kicking up their heels encouragement by tossing ill-gotten coins to them. The gals snatched them up as they hit the stage.