Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  A hot press of tears behind her closed lids made her sigh, and she opened her eyes and replaced the music box in the trunk. She could only hope Papa would understand and forgive her for worrying him. It had seemed like the only way to ensure her happiness with Philippe.

  As she rose to her feet with the tin of comfits, the Scrutiny gave another heavy lurch to one side, then rolled so that she had to cling to the edge of a bunk to keep from falling to the floor. The rumble of pounding feet against the deck made her look up with a frown. She could hear the incessant piping of a whistle cut through the noise with annoying regularity. Why had she ever thought a ship would be relatively peaceful? It had seemed an idyllic interlude that would end with a joyous reunion with Philippe in New Orleans. She had quickly discovered that the ship was anything but quiet and idyllic, with piping whistles, the slap of canvas, humming lines, and roughly shouted orders.

  Muttering to herself about shattered illusions, Angela made her way to the cabin door and threw it open. A shrill shriek gave her only an instant’s warning before Emily barreled into the cabin. Her face was contorted with terror and her words were an incomprehensible babble.

  “Emily.” Angela gave her a slight shake by one arm that had no effect whatsoever. “Emily!”

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh Miss . . .”

  Impatient with Emily’s hiccoughing hysteria, Angela gave her arm a sharp pinch that brought the girl to a gasping halt.

  “Tell me what has you so distraught,” Angela demanded when Emily drew in a deep breath and seemed calmer. “Are you ill again? Why are you so hysterical?”

  “P-p-pirates,” Emily stuttered, brown eyes as wide as saucers and her face as pale as milk. She clutched Angela’s arm. “Oh miss! We’re being chased by pirates!”

  “Nonsense.” Angela’s tart denial was more to convince herself than Emily. “We’re barely two days out of England. Why would any self-respecting pirate be lurking practically in the English Channel?”

  Emily moaned and closed her eyes. “I dunno, miss, I swear I dunno. I only knows that the c-cap’n told me to git below and s-s-stay here, as p-p-pirates are after us.”

  It was evident by Emily’s descent into her broad Yorkshire dialect that she was beyond fear and bordering on mindless terror. Angela took pity on her, and gave her a gentle shove toward one of the bunks.

  “Lie down, Emily. I shall go above deck and find out what is really going on.”

  As she sank down onto the hard comfort of a bunk and put the back of a hand over her eyes, Emily said in a pitiful moan, “Don’t go up there, miss. Just the sight o’ that pirate’s black flag will give ye a fright. A saber. That’s what their flag has on it—a saber drippin’ with blood.”

  “You’ve gone too far, Emily.” Angela tossed the tin of dates to the bunk and grabbed at the wall to support herself as the ship gave another lurch. “A dripping saber? It’s too melodramatic.”

  Emily lifted her hand to peer at her with one eye. “Not this time. The Cap’n said it’s Captain Saber, the most dreadful pirate to ever sail the open seas. Oh miss, when I think of all those articles about him and what he does to the captives he takes . . .”

  Having heard enough, Angela fumbled her way out the door and into the dank, musty companionway. It was evident that something untoward was happening, as even from below she could hear the thunder of feet and male voices lifted in excitement.

  Still, the scene that met her eyes when she pulled herself up the ladder and through the hatch was a shock. Men in various stages of panic scurried over the decks, hauling lines, loosing sails, and jettisoning heavy cargo. It was the last that shook her most, the confirmation that something bad was definitely about to happen.

  She made her way to the captain, ignoring his irate glance and brusque demand to know why she was above deck.

  “Captain Turnower, what is happening?”

  He grasped her by the arm, shocking her as he whirled her around and gave her a shove toward the hatch. “I don’t have time to stand here and explain anything to you. Get back below and stay there until you’re told to come out.”

  Dazed, and fighting the rising fear that threatened to choke her, Angela fumbled for a steadying grip on the iron rail that edged the hatch. She looked up and past the decks. Her eyes fastened on the ship bearing down on them. Above the sails, fluttering in the wind, was the banner that Emily had seen. White against a black field, a curved saber dripped with a few scarlet drops of blood. The insignia amply identified the ship.

  Captain Kit Saber. His name prompted a shudder, and she recalled news articles about him that she had always regarded as pure fantasy. Rumors about him abounded, from the ludicrous tale that he was the son of a duke, to the much more credible story that he was the illegitimate offspring of a wandering Englishman and a West Indian whore. As a pirate, Kit Saber struck terror into the hearts of seafaring men everywhere. He’d been said to take as many as six ships in a single day—though that was deemed improbable by most—and left behind no survivors to tell the tale of his depredations. Only a lucky few had escaped to whisper of his crimes against them, of his fierce, ruthless crew rumored to drink the blood of their victims before shoving them overboard at the points of their swords. Among his crew was a giant, with ebony skin and a tattooed face, and he and the captain were said to be in league with the devil.

  Another shudder made her ache, and Angela stumbled back down the hatch to her cabin. Emily still lay moaning with terror on the bunk, and Angela ignored her as she moved to her trunk again. Somewhere . . . she had seen it in here just a few minutes before . . . ah, there it was.

  Triumphant, she held up Papa’s small pistol, which she’d tossed into her trunk. It held only two balls, but would at least be sufficient threat to hold a savage pirate at bay long enough to barter for their lives and freedom.

  She looked up to see Emily watching her. Her grip tightened on the pistol. “Do what I tell you, Emily, and do not argue with me. There may be no time.”

  “Captain Saber.”

  Kit turned, sheathing his sword as he glanced down at his sailing master. “What is it, Mr. Buttons?”

  Fading sunlight glinted in his pale hair as Mr. Buttons pointed toward a hatch that led below the Scrutiny’s top deck. “Trouble below, cap’n. Turk is there.”

  “Turk? If he’s below, he’s capable of handling any trouble himself. Captain Turnower and I have some negotiations to conduct concerning the surrender of his ship’s cargo.”

  “But Captain . . .”

  Kit had turned back to the white-faced Captain Turnower. Smoke hazed the air, burning his eyes and lungs, and Kit felt a wave of impatience to have this done with. The Scrutiny had yielded with the firing of only a few token shots, but some idiot aboard her had managed to set fire to a pile of tarred ropes. Normally, the transferal of ship’s stores and cargo from one vessel to the other was quite satisfying, but the stench of smoldering rope was making his lungs ache.

  Mr. Buttons loudly cleared his throat. Kit gave the sailing master a fierce glare that made him swallow hard, but he did not retreat.

  “Captain, it was Turk who sent me to fetch you. He said it was ‘most imperative’ that you come at once.”

  A faint smile tugged at Kit’s mouth at the awkward mimicry of Turk’s speech. He nodded. “Very well, Mr. Buttons. Let me assure the captain that I have not forgotten him.”

  He slid his gaze back to Captain Turnower, who met it without flinching. No pleading or whining here, but a man’s acceptance of defeat. It not only made matters go more smoothly, but always saved lives when the prey surrendered.

  With a slight bow, Kit said, “Do be seated, Captain. My sailing master will see to your comfort until my return.”

  Turnower gave a short jerk of his head to acknowledge his agreement, though he could have done little else. His heavy-bottomed merchantman was too slow to outrun a ship much lighter in tonnage and built for speed. The Scrutiny was outmanned, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. Turnower had r
ecognized that fact early enough to save the lives of his crew.

  Grasping the edge of the hatch with one hand, Kit swung below in a single leap, landing on his feet in the dark passageway below. The lamps had gone out and it was gloomy. The air smelled of damp wood and lingering traces of spices from forgotten cargo. He walked down the passageway in long strides, moving toward a lantern outside an open door. He could see Turk’s huge frame barring the doorway, and he stopped.

  “What have you found that you cannot handle, Turk?”

  Despite Kit’s obvious amusement, Turk did not seem to share it. He barely turned his head; lantern light made the black skin of his bald crown gleam dully.

  “This young lady desires to have a word with you, Captain. I exhorted her to defer it until later, but she seems a rather precipitate person, and insisted upon conversing with you immediately.”

  Turk’s mellifluous tones rolled loudly in the dark, silent passageway, and Kit lifted his brow.

  “A young lady? Aboard a Sheridan merchantman?”

  “So it seems, Captain.”

  Kit eyed Turk’s unusual rigidity and the way he stood in the doorway; and suddenly understood his stiffness. He stepped to the side to peer over Turk’s shoulder.

  A young woman stood in desperate determination, a pistol trained on Turk with fierce concentration. Kit stifled a laugh. How incongruous for the massive Turk to be held at bay by a slip of a girl with a tiny firearm no bigger than Turk’s palm.

  “Very well, Turk,” he said after a brief assessment, “I will speak with her. Do move aside.”

  “Oh, no,” came a voice from inside. “He doesn’t move. If you would be so good, Captain, as to converse with me over his shoulder, I won’t get so nervous that I accidentally pull the trigger of this pistol.”

  Kit saw a muscle in Turk’s dark jaw clench, and he held his laughter. He didn’t know why he found it so amusing, given that most females didn’t know one end of a pistol from the other, hence being more of a danger in that respect than any other threat. And the glimpse he’d had of the feral little creature holding the weapon had been anything but reassuring.

  Pale wisps of blond hair scattered her brow beneath the brim of a lopsided hat. Though she held the pistol with grim determination, he’d noticed the fine lines of stress on each side of her mouth. Any sudden movement might, indeed, cause her to squeeze the trigger. It would not ensure the accuracy of her aim, however, as the barrel of the pistol seemed to waver halfway between the cabin wall and the ceiling most of the time.

  Kit drew back and leaned his shoulder against the wall of the passageway. “I am at your service, madam. Pray, make your wishes known, for I fear we are wasting valuable time.”

  There were muffled whispers and scuffling feet, and he shot Turk a questioning glance. “What is she doing?”

  “Predators of this nature seem to come in pairs, Captain,” the ebony giant observed. “We have a full complement of them in the cabin.”

  “I see.” Suddenly wearying of the ridiculous delay in a play that had only one ending that he could see, Kit let his voice take on the hard edge that had been known to make men tremble. “Madam, if you value your life and health, put down that pistol before I take the decision from your hands.”

  Silence fell. The ship creaked and groaned, and he could hear the thud of cargo bumping against hatches as it was transferred to his ship. He waited impatiently, and was about to repeat his demand in more explicit terms when he heard her refusal.

  “No,” came the quavering reply. “If I relinquish the pistol, there will be nothing to stop you from doing your worst.”

  “Damnation, there’s nothing to stop me now.” He levered his body away from the wall, patience rapidly waning, his voice sharp. “If you are foolish enough to shoot my quartermaster, you will very much dislike the results.”

  “Not as much as he will, I would wager.”

  “Perhaps not, but your fate will be more certain than his. If you shoot and miss, I will be no less angry than if you actually strike Turk. If you should be so unfortunate as to put a ball into him, however . . .”

  He let his voice trail into significant silence. The promise of untold retribution would be much more effective than any wild threat he could concoct against an English gentlewoman at such short notice.

  During the pregnant silence that fell, he noted the approaching ground swell from the slight shift of the deck beneath his feet. He flicked a glance at Turk, and saw that he had also detected the ship’s rising motion. It should provide a perfect opportunity.

  “What will it be?” Kit demanded to distract the girl. “Do you surrender easily, or must we resort to extremes?”

  “I . . . I only want mine and my maid’s safety guaranteed,” came the faintly breathless reply. Her voice quivered, not a good sign as far as Kit was concerned.

  As the ship began a slow, stately rise, he moved forward a step, glimpsing the girl’s frightened bravado before the ship suddenly dropped again. The brief moment of abrupt weightlessness made the girl stagger, her pistol wavering. At almost the same instant as he, Turk leaped forward. A stifled scream sliced the air, and the booming report of a pistol deafened him as Kit lunged close behind Turk.

  The sharp, acrid smell of sulphur filled the tiny cabin in a stinging wave. Turk gave a slight grunt. Kit had a brief impression of petticoats and slender legs in white stockings, then he had his hand around a fragile wrist.

  With a jerk, he pulled forward a limp, pale-faced girl with a mop of brown curls. She promptly fainted with only a slight sigh, dropping to the floor by his feet. He turned his attention to the daring assailant, and saw that Turk had her pinned against the bunk with his massive bulk. The pistol lay on the cabin floor, smoke still curling from the barrel.

  Kit scooped it up with one hand, tossing the unconscious girl to the bunk with his other. He stuck the pistol into his belt, then turned.

  Turk’s muscled biceps were streaked with blood, and Kit muttered a curse.

  “Bloody hell, Turk. She shot you.”

  “So it would seem, Captain. I commend your acuity.”

  Furious now, Kit reached for the girl, jerking her to him. Her hat was askew, dipping over one eye and half hiding her face. His hand tangled in a wealth of loose blond hair that had tumbled over her shoulder. It felt as clean and fresh as sunlight on a winter’s day; he dragged her close and tilted back her hat. When her small, patrician nose was only a few inches from his and he could see terror fill her grass green eyes, he said with deliberate cruelty, “I warned you that you would not like your fate.”

  Her pupils expanded to darken her eyes with dramatic shadows. Fear shone in her gaze, fear and something else he could not place. He felt her muscles tense, saw the shadows in her eyes sharpen to purpose. Before he could react to this unexpected threat, the delicate little creature cowering in his grip brought up a swift, accurate knee.

  Unprepared, Kit was caught in his groin by a blow only slightly softened by petticoat and skirts. He grunted in pain and released her to double over. There was a roaring in his ears as if he’d been standing too long on the gundeck. His vision blurred out of focus for a moment as he went to one knee and tried to hold the nausea at bay.

  By the time he looked up again, his blond assailant was well in hand. Turk’s broad fingers curled around her throat in a menacing grip. Kit rose slowly and took a stumbling step, then another; he finally drew in a deep breath that felt riddled with needles. He straightened to his full height with only a slight wince.

  “Take her topside,” he said in a voice that sounded strange. He eyed the girl’s flushed face for a long moment while Turk rearranged his hold on her. Turk seemed absorbed in the task of using her pink satin dress sash as manacles, and did not glance at him. Kit had the distinct impression that it was more because of a desire to hide his laughter than the pain the shallow burn across his biceps was giving him.

  Kit turned away and, with only a slight limp, made his way to the upper de
ck.

  Two

  “What did you do to him?” Emily whispered in a quivering voice.

  Angela slid her maid an assessing glance. Emily had wakened to utter hysteria, made worse by the pirates’ icy indifference. Only a growling threat to knock her out again had ended it. Now they were bound to the mainmast of the Scrutiny, hands tied behind them. Rough wood dug into her tender spine, and Angela shifted position in an effort to ease the discomfort. She gave a slight shake of her head that almost dislodged her hat.

  “I’m not certain. My cousin Tommy taught it to me when I was fifteen. He said if ever I was accosted, I was to kick him in a certain spot and the man would let me go. Apparently, Tommy was truthful for once.”

  Angela and Emily watched the proceedings aboard the captured vessel with terrified interest. Captain Turnower stood on the main deck in tense silence while pirates brought up cargo from the hold and plundered the officers’ cabins. Captain Saber supervised, occasionally flinging Angela a dark look that made her shiver.

  To her surprise, he was nothing like what she had imagined. After hearing all the stories, she’d envisioned a swarthy man with drooping mustache and unkempt beard, armed to the teeth and wearing extravagant, gaudy garments stained with previous meals. Though there were men like that swarming over the decks, the pirate captain was the antithesis of his crew.

  Not that he didn’t look savage enough, but it was a savagery along the lines of an ornate Spanish sword—beautiful and lethal. Beauty and violence combined in over six feet of lean muscle, dark hair, eyes as blue and piercing as a hot summer sun, and the fluid grace of a wild tiger. It was as breathtaking as it was terrifying.