The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  “Yer wantin’ ta attack all English ships, sir?” One Eye asked.

  Grace nodded. “Aye. The time has come fer us ta put our clan squabbles aside ta fight the greater enemy. That enemy flies the English flag, and if it flies ennawhere near us, we will burn it down!”

  The men rallied and cheered. Grace waited for them to settle once more before continuing. “Tell yer families. Tell yer neighbors. Spread the word that the English are not wanted here. Let ’em fight. Let ’em know our freedom is in jeopardy. Then let ’em know that the Queen a’ Connacht willna stop until the English ships stop comin’.” Turning on her heel, Grace O’Malley left the deck to a crowd roaring for the blood of the Englishmen.

  Blood that would very soon spill onto her deck.

  ***

  Quinn stood on the pier after coming to port in one of the smaller boats and looked left to right, her eyes slowly sweeping the village and beyond. The typical crowd was milling about, chatting, visiting, and buying goods. The Galway port was always busy, always a tale of gossip and woes. Quinn had always loved the energy surrounding this port. It was as if all of Ireland congregated here to swap news of events, haggle over wares, and get drunk.

  They’d come to get supplies before heading home to Clare Island for the three days of repairs. If the crew had to be grounded, being grounded at Clare was preferable to anywhere else in the nation. It was home.

  “I’m thinkin’ an ale sounds mighty good,” Fitz said, heading toward the Oxtail. “Ya comin’?”

  Quinn hesitated.

  Fitz slowly turned around. “That pretty young lass will be lookin’ fer ya. Ya can’t be lettin’ her down. She’ll wonder.”

  Quinn stared at Fitz. “Wonder?”

  “That ya don’t care. I know ya do, but women... they look fer us. They wait. They wonder. Don’t make her wonder if ya care fer her.”

  “When did ya learn so much about women?”

  Fitz chuckled. “I have six sisters. I had no choice but ta understand or they’d beat me about the head.”

  “That’s why he’s touched in the head,” Simon remarked. “I seen his sisters when they were in a mood, and it isn’t pretty. They hit hard. Give me a bruise once, they did.”

  Quinn caught up to them. “Yer right. I should at least let her know I am well.”

  Quinn, Fitz, Simon, and several others walked to the village center and headed straight for the Oxtail. Quinn wasn’t two steps into the tavern before Becca ran to her, threw her arms around Quinn’s neck, and crushed her in a too-tight-to-breathe hug.

  “Yer home! Yer back!” Her lips pecked Quinn’s face over and over. “I missed ya. I missed ya so much.”

  Quinn tried to pull away, but Becca held tightly. “I knew ya would come back.”

  Finally pulling away, Quinn took Becca’s face in her hands and kissed her softly. This woman who was always here was beginning to mean more to Quinn than she realized. She felt it in the deepest corners of her heart. “Of course I would... I have.”

  Becca laid her palm on Quinn’s face. “Ya’ve lost weight... no, that’s not it. Blood, mebbe? Let me fatten ya up a bit before––”

  “I cannot stay.”

  Becca’s face fell.

  “But I’ll be back. I just have some friends I need ta visit... others who need ta see that I am in one piece.”

  “Friends? Ya mean her?” Becca’s voice was ice cold.

  Quinn frowned. “Her?”

  Becca sighed loudly. “I know many, many people here from all walks a’ life. I... I know ya’ve been ta see Fiona. I know she is the one who fills yer heart, the one ya long fer at night at sea.” Becca sighed. “I’m a woman. I just... know.”

  Quinn blinked. Her heart hurt at the thought that Becca knew she stood on the edge of the second rung. She deserved so much more that.

  “I am well aware a’ yer affection fer Lady Fiona. Men always long fer that which they canna have. Can’t ya be happy with that which is in yer possession?”

  When Quinn finally found her tongue, she managed to say, “Do not fall in love with me, Becca. I... I am not at all what I seem.”

  Becca laughed a mirthless laugh. “And what is it ya are not? A pirate? A loyal crew member a’ our queen? A kind-hearted and generous lover? What is it ya are not, Kieran Callaghan?”

  Quinn stared into Becca’s eyes, the truth lingering on her tongue and wishing to be spoken, but now was not the time. Maybe there would never be a right time. “I am not one who can commit ta ennathin’ other than the sea.”

  “I never requested a commitment.”

  “No, but ya are worthy of one.”

  Becca barely smiled. “Could ya love me if ya did not harbor yer ill-conceived feelins ver a women far above yer station?”

  Quinn cocked her head. “Ya wish ta be loved by a pirate who comes and goes with the wind? Who rolls in with the tide and out again? Why ever would ya wish fer that?”

  “It is not forever, this life ya lead. Ya... ya are unlike enna man I have ever met. Everrathin’ about ya is different––from the way ya touch me ta the manner in which ya speak ta others. Ya, my sweet love, are a person a’ worth regardless a’ the clothes ya wear or the job ya choose. Ya are worth waitin’ fer.”

  Quinn’s eyes stayed locked on Becca’s. She was amazed at the depth of this woman’s feelings—and ashamed that she had treated Becca no differently than any other man would have. At this moment, she was disgusted with herself and was glad she didn’t have a mirror to look into.

  “Yer words burn my heart, Becca. Had I known––”

  “That I love ya? That I long fer ya and think a’ ya everra day? I was not goin’ ta speak a word a’ it ’til news reached me about Lady Fiona. I must say, ya have a verra refined palate fer a person a’ yer questionable position.”

  “I was merely––”

  “Guardin’ her? Protectin’ her? Fallin’ in love with her? There is more ta it than that, Kieran. I can see it in yer eyes.”

  “And yet, ya still profess ta love me. Why? How?”

  “Because I do. There is a shiny apple outta reach and one at yer feet. Like most men, ya set yer gaze upon that which is too high. At some point, ya will recognize that yer’ reachin’ too high fer it. Ya need ta turn yer eyes ta the ground. When ya do, I will be here.”

  Just as Quinn started to reply, the door burst open, and several men Quinn recognized as from the Donnell clan surged forward, swords drawn, grabbing all of the men from the Malendroke and taking their weapons.

  “What are––”

  A fist landed on the left side of Quinn’s face, knocking her to the ground. Becca screamed and leapt upon Quinn’s attacker, her fingers gouging at his eyes. As he slammed Becca into the wall, Quinn reached for her sword, but a second man held the tip of his knife at her throat.

  “Draw and die.”

  Raising her empty hands, Quinn glanced over at Becca, who had the wind knocked out of her.

  “We are Grace O’Malley’s crew,” Quinn said. “Ya’d best step aside or”––

  “We know who ya are. We know exactly who ya all are. Get yer arses outside quietly and we may leave yer woman be.”

  Slowly rising, Quinn glared hard at the leader. “Touch her and everra one of yer heads will be jammed on a pike before sundown.” Quinn walked outside where the rest of the crew stood weaponless and waiting.

  “Yer makin’ a big mis––”

  Before Connor could finish, a Donnell punched him in the face.

  “Down ta the pier wi’ ya. Someone’s paid a pretty bounty fer everra head a’ the Malendroke we can bring in. It’s nothin’ personal.”

  “Nothin’ personal? Arsehole.”

  A fist shot out and punched Fitz in the stomach. “I’ll be happy ta hand them yer head.”

  When Quinn and twenty-one others walked down to the pier, there were two short boats waiting. Her eyes darted everywhere, trying to discern a way out of their predicament. If she did not work something out, they were
all going to die.

  “I’m thinkin’ we may wanna stop going ta taverns,” One Eye grumbled. “They don’t seem ta be a verra safe place fer the likes a’ us.”

  Quinn looked around and gauged their chances for success. It didn’t look good. There was a boat of...

  “Englishmen?” Fitz growled, jerking away from the group. “Yer turnin’ us over ta fuckin’ Englishmen? What is the matter with ya?”

  “Fuckin’ traitors,” Connor growled. “Sold yer souls, didja?”

  The clansman shoved Fitz between the shoulders. As he staggered forward, Quinn took a swing at another man, connecting with his jaw. Connor went after another, but they were quickly subdued by the sheer numbers.

  Quinn took several punches to her face, splitting her eyebrow open again, bruising her cheek, and tearing open her bottom lip. When she fell to her knees, the rest of the men gathered around her to protect her from any more beatings.

  Rising slowly, Quinn wiped the blood from her mouth. “Take it easy, fellas.”

  “Calm down,” a large, barrel-chested man ordered, pushing his way to the front. “Or ya can arrive at the ship dead men. Doesna matter ta me. I get paid no matter what condition yer in.”

  Fitz started toward the man.

  Wiping the blood from her face, Quinn held her hand up to Fitz’s chest. “Later,” she growled in his ear. “We can’t win this.”

  Fitz comported himself, threw his shoulders back, and nodded. “Yer bleedin’ pretty bad.”

  “It’s an old wound. I’ll be fine. Just keep yer head.” Quinn turned to the rest. “All of ya. Keep yer fuckin’ heads. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

  The crew remained silent as they rowed out to a ship moored to the north. As they rounded the cliffs, there sat Drake’s ship, the Judith.

  “Motherfucker... ”

  Quinn nudged Fitz. “Hush.”

  “What’s that bastard up ta?” Connor inquired aloud. “Ta come ta our home and pay our people ta turn on us?”

  “He could have already had us killed,” Quinn said softly.

  “Quiet!”

  They remained silent until they reached the deck of the Judith.

  “Welcome aboard,” Francis Drake said in barely passable Irish Gaelic as he strutted across the deck like a peacock, hands locked behind his back. “Which among you is the leader of this ragtag bunch of Celtic hooligans?”

  Connor stepped forward. “I take offense, sir.”

  “Take all you want, pirate, but aboard this ship, you and your thieving crew are little more than a pack of sea dogs who need to be brought to heel. I am the pack master who shall do just that.”

  Quinn could practically feel her crewmates bristle.

  “Your she-bitch captain has taxed her last English ship, I’m afraid. It is time for her to fall under the one true queen.”

  Quinn turned to face the men. “Not a word. Do not let him goad ya. Do not give him a reason ta kill ya.”

  “I need no reason,” Drake replied. “You are enemies of England, pure and simple. You are thieves, cutthroats, and ruffians who steal from the Queen of England. You have stolen your last bit of silver from Her Majesty.”

  “We are not at war with England,” Quinn said, pulling Connor back and stepping up to Drake.

  “Not yet. And as such, no, I cannot kill you... yet––though I do so wish I could, and I will, soon enough. You and your female captain are a thorn in my side, and I shall have you removed once and for all. There will be no more taxing of English ships. Your days on the Malendroke are over. Your days of being on the same waters as I are over. Over. You understand?” He flicked his wrist at them and nodded toward his men. “Take them below.”

  The crew was taken to the now-empty holds below. It still reeked from the previous cargo. Quinn felt sick when she thought of what—who—had been there before her. She thought again of Shea, trapped perhaps in the same way at this very moment. She bristled. She would get out.

  “Hop on there and secure the leg irons. Fail to do so correctly and we’ll run you through. We don’t have time for horse shit.” This came from one of the English sailors.

  Slowly, each Irishman climbed onto the hard wooden platform and locked the leg irons around their ankles. Those with boots had to remove a boot in order for the shackles to fit. Quinn was in that group, and as she fastened the cuff around her ankle, she felt a small sliver of hope.

  Once the irons were checked, the English left the hold.

  Immediately, everyone starting talking at once, until Connor whistled loudly.

  “Listen up! Drake could have kilt us already, but he hasn’t. That means we are either goin’ ta a dungeon or there is another plan afoot. Either way, we’re still alive. Now, can ennaone get free?”

  Suddenly, a grinning guard appeared in the darkness. “Stop talking,” he said in English. “I may not know what you’re saying, but I’ll run you through and toss you over the side to the sharks if you don’t shut your traps. Now lie still and keep your mouths shut, you filthy Celts.”

  Quinn waited an hour before quietly pulling the cuff to bring her leg into her lap. The guard was snoring so loudly, she could have rattled the chains if she’d wanted. Wiggling her foot, she knew she could easily pull it free. The cuffs were made for larger-boned people.

  As she started to pull her foot through, she caught Fitz looking at it. Hairless, smooth, and dainty, Quinn’s foot screamed feminine.

  Catching his eye, she waited for him to say something.

  He didn’t. Instead, he looked away. “Don’t,” he whispered. “They’ll kill ya.”

  “Not if I kill them first,” Quinn whispered, pulling her foot free. “And they will kill no one today.” Quinn scooted around in the semidarkness to the side of a second set of wooden beds.

  The oarsman named Gimp had managed to pull his foot free.

  “I can go with ya,” Gimp said.

  “Good. We wait until dark, and––”

  “And then what?” the man next to him asked. “Callaghan and Gimp can’t get the rest a’ us free without a key, and even then––”

  “I don’t want ’em ta free us,” Connor whispered. “I want ’em ta get word ta the captain.”

  “Get word... how––”

  “Can ya swim, Callaghan?”

  Quinn blinked. “Aye, but Connor, I cannot swim out ta the shore. It’s well too far away. That’d be suicide.”

  “Stop talking!” a different English guard yelled in English. “Or I’ll kill one of you just because I can.”

  Suddenly, another group of Grace’s men were deposited in the hold, and Quinn wondered why Patrick wasn’t among them. Where was her brother? But although Patrick wasn’t with this second group, One Eye was.

  “I overheard them bastards talkin’,” One Eye said. “The English rat fuckers are leavin’ the ship with only a handful a’ men ta start firin’ at the Malendroke while the others pick us off at the dock.”

  “Wait. They’re gonna fire on our ship?”

  One Eye nodded.

  “Holy shite,” Quinn said. “He’s going ta trick Captain O’Malley into firing on her own crew. That’s why he hasn’t killed us. He’s going ta let her do it.”

  The hold became quiet.

  “It makes sense as ta why he kept us alive,” Fitz said.

  “Aye. If Captain O’Malley kills her own crew, she’ll be ruined. The other clans will destroy her. The clan infighting is just what England wants.”

  “If she doesn’t destroy herself.”

  “How do we stop them?”

  Quinn held up her hand. “We don’t. We don’t stop them. We stop her.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  ***

  Nightfall.

  Whatever dream the dozing guard was having was his last; Gimp ripped his sword from him and ran him through before he could so much as open his eyes.

  Gimp climbed the steps to the deck with Quinn close behind.

>   “The longer ya keep them, the better,” she whispered.

  “Ya just do yer bit, Callaghan. Otherwise, we’re all dead, and the captain is ruined.” Gimp cautiously opened the door and looked around. Even in the near darkness it was evident that the ship had but a skeletal crew... men who would probably take a short boat once the firing began.

  “Here I go, Callaghan. Don’t let us down.” Gimp took off limping toward the bow, screaming. “Me foot! Me damaged foot!”

  Several Englishmen gave chase before Gimp fell to the deck, holding his collapsed leg and howling about a creature on deck that had attacked him and ruined his foot.

  Quinn darted to the aft end of the deck where two smaller boats were secured to the side of the ship. Pulling out one of the daggers she kept strapped beneath her chest compression, Quinn worked feverishly to cut the smaller, twenty-man rowboat from the ship.

  “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Glancing up from the rope she was cutting, Quinn saw one of Drake’s men running toward her with a torch in one hand and a sword in the other.

  “Jesus.” Quinn finished cutting the rope to release the rowboat.

  As it plummeted to the water below, she turned, grabbed the wrist of her attacker, and flung him up to the rail of the ship, where he teetered a moment before falling overboard. He screamed all the way down until his cries were drowned out by the water.

  Grabbing the railing, she took one last glance at Gimp, who had a larger crowd around him now, and then she hopped over, feet first, landing in the frigid water next to the boat. Five feet closer, and she’d have had two broken legs.

  With every ounce of energy she had, she pulled her soggy clothes and soaking body up into the boat. It tossed and turned in the aggressive Irish Sea as if playing keep-away from her.

  Once in, she collapsed in the seat, shivering.

  Better cold than dead, she thought. She figured Gimp would suffer the latter. The least she could do was push through some cold for his sake.