In a Pirate's Arms

by Kruger, Mary

  “No, sir,” Kelly replied.

  “Go, do so now. He’ll cause me no problem,” he went on, as he saw Swift about to object. “That is an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Swift’s voice was wooden, causing Dee’s lips to twitch in annoyance, but after a moment the two men trudged up the stairs in search of food. Dee fitted the key in the lock, smiling to himself. Good. This moment, long-awaited, was for him alone.

  For a moment after closing and locking the strongroom door behind him, Dee frowned down at the still figure of the Raven, absentmindedly stroking the scar on his cheek. The man was crafty. It would be best to be on his guard. “Brand,” he said, harshly. “Get up.”

  There was no response. Dee frowned down at him, and then hefted the wooden bucket that stood in a corner, dumping water over Marcus’s head. “Do you hear me, Brand? I said, get up.”

  Marcus moaned, but otherwise stayed still. Frowning, Dee bent over him, and suddenly his collar was caught in a stranglehold. He clawed at it, trying to breathe, trying to dislodge Marcus’s hands, but Marcus held on, twisting the cloth, his eyes bulging with the effort, his teeth bared. Dee tried to yell, but the only sound he made was a kind of squawk. Damme, he shouldn’t have sent the soldiers away, he thought frantically, and with an almost superhuman effort bore Marcus back. Marcus grunted, his grip weakening for just a moment, but long enough for Dee to recover. Damme, he was not going to let his cousin get the best of him again! Recalling all the past conflicts, all the times he had fought Marcus and lost, he reared up, and with a mighty sweep of his arms at last freed himself. Marcus was flung against the wall, to lie very still.

  Dee rose on unsteady legs, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and surveyed his enemy uneasily. What new trick was this? “Try that again,” he rasped, “and you’ll find me more than ready.”

  There was no reply. Unsheathing his pistol, Dee aimed a kick at Marcus’s midsection. “Get up,” he said, coldly.

  Marcus turned his head, though it seemed to take all the strength he possessed. His gaze, fuzzy and blurred, took in two pairs—no, one—of boots, badly cracked and in need of a polish. Devil take it, he had the monster of a headache, but he was in command of his faculties. Jeremiah. Exactly the sort to attack an injured man, as he had been the type to molest a helpless woman. Devil take it, was Rebecca all right?

  “Jeremiah,” he croaked, rising to his hands and knees, though his head swam and his limbs trembled with the effort. He would not cower, a willing victim, before this man. “Do you always attack helpless women?”

  One booted foot swung back, and then stopped, as if Dee had thought better of it. “Ah, you think you are still in control here? Well, you are not!” His voice was harsh. “I ordered you to get up.”

  “Certainly, boyo,” Marcus said, affably. “If you’ll just give me a hand—”

  “Do you take me for a fool?

  “No. A cad and a coward, but not a fool.”

  This time when Dee’s foot swung back, it didn’t stop. The toe of his boot collided solidly with Marcus’s ribs, making him collapse in a heap on the floor again, moaning in spite of himself. “I prefer you better this way,” Dee said, coldly.

  “Then—you really are—a coward,” Marcus croaked out, and received another punishing kick for his boldness.

  “Damn you. You’ll pay for that, and for everything else you’ve done to me.”

  “Don’t—be too certain.” The pain in Marcus’s ribs was nearly unbearable, making it difficult for him to breathe, but he’d be damned before he let Dee see that. “My men know where—to look for me. Told them if—I wasn’t back—to come after me. And then—we’ll see who wins this—fight.”

  Dee shuffled his feet and then steadied himself, laughing a little. “Then they’ll be arrested, too. Haven’t you heard the news? My army’ll be marching into this city within a day.”

  “You—lie.”

  “And when they do, I’ll gladly turn you over to them. Do you know what will happen then?” Dee’s face was very close, his breath foul with tobacco smoke. “They’ll hang you from the highest tree, and I’ll enjoy watching. Oh, yes, that I will. Best say your prayers, Brand. You are a dead man.”

  “And I’ll see you—in hell,” Marcus grated out. His only answer was Dee’s mocking laugh, as he went out and slammed the door shut. His mind, his spirit, urged him to get up, to open the door before it was too late and grab Dee, but when he tried to rise, it was only to fall back again, groaning. He was badly hurt. Devil take it, if Dee would kick a injured man, what would he do to Rebecca?

  That thought did make him move. Biting his lips so hard they bled, he rolled over, slowly, slowly, onto his back. There he lay for a while, dimly aware of his guards returning and looking in on him. It was a bit better this way; his breathing was easier and he could see his cell. Not good enough, though. Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled himself up, until at last he sat, panting, his back to the wall. Devil take it, he was already exhausted. What use would he be to Rebecca in this shape? But he couldn’t give in. Using the wall for support, he twisted until he was on his knees, rested for he didn’t know how long, and managed, at last, to bring one foot up to rest on the floor. The rough wall provided handholds; clinging to them, ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs, the swamping dizziness in his head, he pulled himself up. He was standing at last, and though he had to close his eyes to shut out a whirling, spinning world, still he was on his feet. The pain didn’t matter, nor did the locked iron door. He knew only one thing. Somehow he was going to have to escape, and rescue Rebecca from Dee.

  Rebecca slept little that hot, sultry night, and rose early, her spirits depressed. The day promised to be uncomfortably warm, and already she could feel her clothes sticking to her as she went downstairs, a little fearful of what she would face. To her relief, only her father was in the kitchen.

  “There you are,” he grunted. “I will not tolerate lying abed in my house. Now see to breakfast, girl. And prepare a chicken for dinner. We have guests.”

  Rebecca nodded, not wanting to acknowledge him by so much as a word or a look. He was a stranger to her, this man she had showered with love her entire life, a cold, hard stranger who cared naught for her happiness, or even her safety. He wanted her to marry Dee? Never. The very thought made her skin crawl. Far worse, however, was the thought of what would happen to Marcus, should she not find a way to free him. “Is Marcus well?” she asked, breaking her silence as she poured out coffee for Ezra.

  He grunted, concentrating his attention on the copy of the Times and Potowmack Packet in his hand. “Do not concern yourself with him.”

  “May I see him?”

  Ezra looked up. “Are you daft, girl? Of course not. You’d do well to start being nice to Lieutenant Dee instead.”

  “No,” she said, but the protest was automatic. Foolish of her to hope that Father might relent this once. With even that slight hope dashed, depression settled upon her again in a smothering blanket. She went through her work automatically, stopping every now and then in surprise as awareness struck her. She didn’t remember washing the dishes, but she must have; didn’t remember gathering greens from the kitchen garden or potatoes from the root cellar; didn’t even remember butchering and plucking the chicken that she held in her hand, just outside the kitchen door. Merciful, that muffling, enshrouding blanket of hopelessness, sheltering her for a time from her painful emotions, and the terror of what would happen to Marcus if she didn’t do anything. Merciful, and dangerous. She was his only hope.

  Head held high, thoughts clear for the first time that morning, she walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. Dee was sitting at the table, the same copy of the Times and Potowmack Packet in his hand. “Well, come in,” he said, looking up as she stood in the doorway. “I won’t bite.” He smiled, displaying his crooked, yellow teeth, and she barely repressed a shudder. “I’d almost think you were avoiding me.”

  Rebecca laid the chicken on the table and took a cleaver down from
its hook in the pantry. “Whyever would you think that?” she asked, and in one quick, chopping movement brought the cleaver down. Thwack! The chicken’s head was neatly severed from the rest of the body, and blood streamed across the table, towards Dee.

  “Hey!” He jumped up in surprise. “Careful, there.”

  “My apologies, sir. Butchering a chicken is messy work. I shall try not to spatter you.”

  “See that you don’t.” He sat down again, his gaze going uneasily from the cleaver to his musket, propped against the wall. Good, Rebecca thought with grim satisfaction. Let him see she was not some weak, timid miss to be bullied into submission.

  Thwack! The cleaver came down again, severing one of the chicken’s legs. Thwack! The other leg. Thwack! And she wished it was Lieutenant Dee’s head. He continued to watch her with wary fascination. “Have you never seen a chicken cut up before?”

  He seemed to collect himself, drawing himself up straighter. “Of course I have. I never realized you were quite so—masterful, Rebecca.”

  “There’s much you don’t know about me.” Thwack! The wings came off easily; no need for her to use so much force, but she wanted to.

  “I would like to learn.”

  “Huh.”

  “Have I hurt you, Rebecca?” She merely stared at him at that, and so after a moment he went on. “I heard you talking to your father earlier.”

  “Yes, and so?”

  “You wish to visit our prisoner?”

  Hope flared in Rebecca’s heart, fragile and painful, but she knew better than to let it show on her face. “If I say yes, you’ll refuse.”

  “Why, Rebecca. Do I appear so cruel?”

  “Yes.” The cleaver came down again, slicing neatly through the chicken’s breast bone. “You strike me as cruel, hard, and quite possibly deranged.”

  Much to her surprise, Dee let out a laugh. “A compliment, indeed! I do like the deranged. A novel touch.”

  “You would,” she muttered.

  “Do you know, Rebecca, I might just let you see him,” he said, and in spite of herself she looked up. “If you’re nice to me.”

  There was so much to answer to that that she found herself speechless, staring at him with cleaver upraised. Under her gaze Dee shifted, his eyes upon the bloody cleaver. Why, she could attack him right now, she thought, and she would happily do so, except that Marcus would suffer for it. “No,” she said, finally, lowering the cleaver.

  “Think before you answer. You don’t wish to do something you’ll regret.”

  “No,” she said again, and turned away, to the pantry, to put the chicken pieces on a plate. Thus she didn’t see Dee jump up from his chair and rush across the room to her; she only heard him, and that when it was too late.

  “Understand this,” he hissed, grabbing her arm and turning her to him, his face very close to hers. “I’ve waited a long time for this, and I will not wait much longer. You will be mine, Rebecca.”

  “Well, well.” Ezra’s hearty voice came from behind Dee, preventing Rebecca from retaliating, with the clever so close to hand. There was a well of violence in her she had never before suspected. “Getting acquainted already?”

  Dee turned, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Rebecca’s arm. “Your daughter is an attractive woman.”

  Ezra chuckled, a rusty sound. “I quite understand, sir. But, mind you, I will not stand for anything before marriage. Not”—he looked sternly at Rebecca—“this time.”

  She returned his gaze, stony-faced. “I would as soon kiss a toad,” she said, clearly.

  Dee’s face darkened, and his grip on her arm tightened punishingly, but his voice when he spoke was almost cheerful. “Of course not before marriage, sir.” He released her at last, going back into the kitchen. “By the by,” he tossed back over his shoulder, “I have decided to let her visit the prisoner this afternoon.”

  Involuntarily Rebecca stepped forward, but Ezra spoke first. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” he said, frowning.

  “Why not?” Dee sat down, carelessly crossing his leg and swinging one booted foot to and fro. “She’ll be guarded. What can she, a mere woman, do?”

  “True.” Ezra continued to frown. “Still, I disapprove, sir.”

  “This is my mission, sir.” Dee’s voice was silky-soft and menacing. “I shall do as I see fit.”

  “It’s my house,” Ezra blustered, but he took a step back at the look in Dee’s eyes.

  “So it is. But for now it is a prison, and I am the jailer. If I say she may visit, she may visit. After all, she’ll never see him again.”

  “True.”

  “And I intend to keep her very busy afterwards,” he said, tossing Rebecca a twisted smile.

  Rebecca’s fingers curled convulsively on the doorjamb. She hated him. Oh, she hated him, and she wished she had used the cleaver when she had the chance. Alone, though, a woman among men, what would that have availed her? If Dee hadn’t gotten it away from her, one of the others would have, and then where would she be? Where would Marcus be? She would have to think of another weapon.

  And suddenly, looking at Dee, she knew what she had to do.

  Dinner had been consumed and the dishes tidied away. Rebecca had eaten very little, though the fried chicken had turned out just right, crispy and golden brown; she hadn’t the spirit for it. Yet she would have to keep up her energy for what she planned. Marcus’s life depended upon it. If only it weren’t so hot.

  She brushed beads of sweat away from her forehead as she walked through the hall, heading for the stairs and her room. If she were to see Marcus, she wanted to look her best. As she started to ascend the stairs, however, the study door opened. “Rebecca. Come in here,” Ezra said, and turned away, apparently never doubting that she’d obey.

  Annoyed, Rebecca went into the room. “Yes? What is it?

  “I don’t like your taking that tone of voice with me, girl.” Ezra sat down behind his desk, frowning at her. “But I’ll forgive you this time.”

  “And yet you betrayed the man I wish to marry,” she retorted.

  Ezra waved his hand in dismissal. “Forget about him. I’ve better plans for you, girl.”

  “What? Dee?”

  “Close the door,” he commanded, and she obeyed, puzzled by his expression, smug and apprehensive at once. “That’s better. I’d not care to have him overhear this.”

  “Overhear what? Father, do get to the point. I’ve things to do—”

  “Your visit to the Raven? Dee is mad to allow that. But, there, I suppose it will do little enough harm. After all, the man will be gone soon—”

  “When?” Rebecca sat forward, hands clenched on her knees.

  “When the British take the city. And when they do, my girl,” he leaned back, “I’ve plans for you.”

  “I warn you, Father, that I’ll not marry Dee.”

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  She gaped at him. “You don’t?”

  “No.” From his desk drawer he took out a cheroot and lit it, the odor of fine tobacco fuming the room. “Dee is a tool. A means to an end. And that means you will be nice to him.”

  “Only if it means Marcus will be treated well.”

  “Your Marcus is a dead man. Yes, Dee has been useful.” He took a long draw on the cheroot. “He’ll be useful yet, in telling what I’ve done.”

  “What you’ve done?” she asked, cautiously, for there was an odd light in his eyes.

  “Yes. What do you think I’ve been doing here all these months?” He flourished a sheaf of papers in her face. “I’ve been making plans, girl, for all of us. For the government.”

  Rebecca frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you? It has become clear to me that our present form of government is ineffective.” He rose and began to pace the room. “Look who we have for president. Little Jemmy Madison, who’s led us into war with the one country we need as an ally. I intend to change that.”

  “How?” she asked, throu
gh dry lips.

  “How? By forming a new government, of course. You look surprised, and well you might. But this has been in my mind for a very long time.”

  “‘Tis treason, Father,” she whispered.

  “No. Common sense, girl. When the British take over, they’ll need someone to be in charge, someone who knows the country, the people. I intend”—he turned, bracing his hands on the back of a chair—“that person to be me.”

  Rebecca stared at him, knowing at last what the light in his eyes was. Insanity. “You’re mad.”

  “Some may call me that,” he agreed. “It ever has been thus with visionaries. I intend to dispense with this ridiculous system of government we’ve been laboring under. Imagine, the people making the rules! Nothing will ever get done that way.” He paced back and forth again. “I’ve been thinking of this plan for a very long time, and now is my chance to implement it. The British think they’ll subdue us, eh? Well, they’ll soon be proven wrong. The countryside will rise up in revolt, and who will they turn to to lead them? Me.” He pointed at his chest. “I will already be their leader, ‘twill be natural for them to look to me. And when we’ve ousted the British”—his chest swelled—“who will be in place to lead our new country? I will. You’ve nothing to say to this?” he asked, as Rebecca stared at him. “Well, no matter. You will be happy enough when it happens. King Ezra the First. Yes.” He stood by the window. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  “Father, you can’t be serious,” Rebecca said, finding her voice at last.

  “I am. And I will not have you disrupting my plans.” He sat back, his eyes cold, yet burning. “I must think of what to do with you.”

  “Father—”

  “I will send you away,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Yes. That way you will not disgrace me. And I believe I shall marry again. As king, I will need an heir.”

  “You have gone mad!” she exclaimed, and at that moment, faint in the distance, came a dull, booming sound. “What is that?”