A slow grin filled his face. Aye, soon he’d have Santiago’s child tossed in the dark cell of The Sea Devil. He’d arrange to meet with the Spanish captain and toss the body at the man’s feet—for he absolutely could not let a child of Santiago live, not when the man wanted it badly enough to offer such a massive reward. Then, when knowing dawned on the bastard’s face, Thor would sink his blade deep into Santiago’s heart. Revenge complete. An eye for an eye. A loved one for a loved one.
Thor ignored the bitter taste his own thoughts left on his tongue. He was a pirate. This was what pirates did. They ravaged, maimed, stole, took lives. Part of the brethren code he’d vowed to keep was not taking a life unnecessarily. But there had to be someway to get around that.
As he marched toward his ship, anyone scurrying around the docks at this bleak hour leapt out of his way, not wanting to cause trouble with a man the size of a mountain. The rest of them stayed where they were, hidden in the shadows, waiting for someone more vulnerable to pass by. Bodies heaved. Moaned. They were all up to no good.
Thievery.
Assault.
Smuggling.
Debauchery.
Thor had seen it all. And honoring the code of the brethren, if he came across an innocent being abused, he always stepped in. While he thought on it, he watched a lass leap across several barrels as two wharf guards chased her, their swords clinking as they shouted at her about the promise of the hangman’s noose. She was dressed in breeches, but there was no hiding the feminine curves she was blessed with. The moon lit off her creamy skin and the flash of her wicked smile. Added to that, her hair fell loose of its plait in wild black curls that surrounded her face like a shroud of devilry. Och, Thor liked her. A lot. Had he not been on a mission, and she not running—quite well, might he add—from the authorities, he might have asked her to join him aboard his ship for a dram.
Thor grinned, watching her impressive dodging. She thrust one long leg out to catch the top of a barrel with a dainty foot, making running from wharf guards look like an elegant dance. The lass was clearly used to being chased by the authorities—and with getting away. She taunted them with lewd remarks he’d never heard come from a lass’s lips and made a rude hand gesture at them as she darted into a darkened alley.
That was a lass who could take care of herself. His kind of woman.
Chuckling, he sauntered off, thinking it might be fun to go after her and offer her that dram after all, but she’d likely take his offer of respect as him wanting something else, and he might end up with a knife in his gut. Or worse—his ballocks.
Better to mind his own business. And keep his precious parts.
The Sea Devil loomed before him, the Devils of the Deep flag safely hidden and the merchant’s flag swaying in the evening breeze in its place. Every time he saw her, his heart swelled as it had the first moment he’d found out the ship was his. It was after he’d escaped from Santiago. Shaw had seen fit to give him the twenty-two-gun galley in an effort to turn his mind from revenge and back on the brethren. The responsibility of being the captain had been exactly what Thor needed to get his head back in the game. His men respected him. He respected himself. He had more to focus on than just the revenge he’d lived and breathed for the better part of two decades. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten. Nay, he’d been a wild animal in hiding. Hibernating that need for vengeance until the right time presented itself. As it just had.
Thor leapt the few feet to the rope ladder and climbed. They never left a plank out for any scoundrel to climb aboard. That was asking for trouble. Trouble they did not need. Or want. The ship deck was littered with swabs, half of them drinking and cavorting, and the other half dead asleep.
Thor picked up his bagpipes, licked his lips, blew into the pipe, setting the tone for the music and then gave it his all, playing the same ballad he had in the tavern and longing for the seas to embrace them once more. Those who’d been asleep awoke, and those who’d been carousing quieted. They listened to their captain play, and when Thor was done, they waited for what he had to say.
“A treasure awaits us.” Thor met each of their gazes, nodding. “A bounty at this port that will lead us to a chest of gold doubloons.”
“Spanish gold,” someone muttered with obvious pleasure.
“What kind of bounty?” another asked.
Thor grinned, settling his pipes back in their case. “’Tis the bastard bairn of none other than Captain Santiago Fernandez.”
There were a few sharply indrawn breaths, and the men grew silent, waiting for their captain to expand on his words. He searched the sea of faces for Edgard, his first mate and second-in-command. Edgard’s face was guarded, but he did nod his support. The man had been with him for as long as The Sea Devil had been his, and Thor trusted him implicitly.
“I dinna know if ’tis a lass or lad, but I do know he or she would be twenty by now. We’ll put out the word for a small reward, and once we’ve the bastard in hand, we’ll set sail for Scarba, and then arrange to meet Santiago to claim the gold.”
“Ye’re not going to give him the child.” Edgard made the statement rather than asking, having picked up on Thor’s choice of words.
“Nay. I’m going to kill the wee bastard. Kill Santiago. And take all the gold on his ship.”
The men cheered, all except Edgard, who he suspected would remind him of the brethren code when his men wouldn’t dare. Thor took the large mug of ale they passed him, swigged it hard and then tossed it in the air.
He set his mouth to the pipes again and played a victorious tune, his hard gaze on Edgard’s all the while. Screw the code. Vengeance would be his. The taste of sweet retribution was already thick and delicious on his tongue.
Chapter Two
Alesia Baird leapt with glee from one barrel to the next, the rough soles of her boots planting firmly to the slimy wooden surfaces before she made her next launch. Left. Right. Left. Right.
A merry smile covered her lips as she bounded away from the blackguards who chased her. Aye, they were authority figures, wharf guards employed by the King of Scotland, but that mattered not to her. Authority figures were as bad as the devil himself as far as she was concerned. The bastards were after a few things she wasn’t willing to give—bribes, punishment or death.
Today, it would seem death was on the line as they shouted to her about the gibbet she’d soon be hanging from. Her unmanageable hair had come loose from its tight plait, falling in a cascade down her back. As she ran, pieces flew in her face, stinging her cheeks and poking her eyes. And then her cap took flight.
Drat! That was her good hat, too, and she didn’t have time to chase after it as much as she wanted to. Not unless she wanted to feel their rough hands wrap around her arms and yank her to the dark cell they called a prison.
Thank goodness, she’d not sewn any coins into it since she tended to lose the darned things.
If only she’d had the sense to steal the gown from her latest victim in addition to the brooch, then she might not be in this current predicament. As much as she hated gowns, given it was a life or death situation, she’d have tugged on the silly garment in an instant. Then she’d be sashaying across the dock dressed up like a lady, pretending she had a right to be there. Well, as much as any lady would be at the docks in the dead of night—perhaps more a lady of the evening. Alas, the brooch had been bright and shiny, and the lady’s scream piercing enough that Alesia had taken flight rather than take the time to rob the snotty bird of her garments.
“Bugger off, ye blimey bastards!” she shouted behind her, adopting the language of the men of the wharf she’d heard often exclaimed for as long as she could remember.
Alesia Baird was what most common folk would call a wharf rat. Highly offensive if anyone were to ask her, but they didn’t. They didn’t care if they hurt her. In fact, they seemed to gain a certain amount of pleasure from beating the downtrodden. Well, they, whoever they were, could all rot.
Born to a beautiful
lady of the night, Alesia could barely remember her mother now, having lost her when she was a wee one of just five summers. But what she did remember was the softness of her mother’s arms. The sweet sound of her voice singing Alesia to sleep at night when she’d had a mind not to be too deep in her cups, or too angry about life in general. The smell of bergamot and sage that her mother wore to cover up for the lack of bath, and the abundance of male customers.
Aye, her mother was a lady of the night, and when she passed on, many of her customers thought it would be a good idea to bring Alesia into the fold. But even at the tender age of five, she’d known better than to allow for their tender ministrations. Instead, for the last fifteen years, she’d been driving the authorities mad with her antics, and surviving all the same.
Stubborn, strong and with a mean right hook, Alesia was a survivor. Something she told herself every night. No matter how they sought to tear her down, she wasn’t about to let them get inside her head or her body, not if she could help it. They might promise her the gibbet, but that was being kind, and she was certain from past experience that they wouldn’t be kind too quickly.
A few times, she’d been caught, beaten and abused, but those instances had only proved to make her fiercer, more full of hate for the bastards who’d done it, and more interested in finding a way out of this wretched existence. Away from Edinburgh, the Leith wharf. When she was younger, she’d dreamed of dolphins swimming up to the quay, and she’d leap onto their backs and ride away into the sunset. Naïve nonsense. If anyone was going to save her, it was going to be herself.
“This is the last time ye’ll be stealing, ye wench!”
She thumbed her nail off her teeth at the fool, a most offensive gesture, and then leapt from the barrels to dart down an alleyway. Except the wharf guards were not the only two pursuing her. Two drunkards from the tavern had taken note of her running and decided to block the way, in hopes the guards would tip them.
“Back off,” she warned, coming to a halt but not ceasing her movements completely as she bent her knees and shifted her weight from side to side, prepared to dive into a fray should she need to. From her periphery, she looked to see if there were any other men hiding in the shadows waiting for their moment to strike.
They chuckled, leering grins on their drunk-slackened faces and in their drooping eyes. “What’s in it for us?”
“Walking away without a black eye. And your ballocks intact.”
That only made them laugh harder, which sent a rush of hot anger pummeling through her chest. They clearly did not know her identity, or her reputation.
Behind her, she heard the rushing footsteps of the authorities come to a halting stop.
“Nowhere to run now, Miss Baird,” one said.
“Sod off, Angus.” Despite the calm indifference in her tone, her pulse soared. Two in front and two in back. Not good odds by any standard of measure. She’d fought multiples before, been paid to do it for entertainment. A good fight paid for nearly a month’s worth of room and board in a tavern’s taproom, sometimes more, but four men against her, two of whom were spitting mad and wanted her to dance the hempen jib… Not good odds at all.
They really did have her cornered.
“Your thieving has caught the eye of more than just us,” the guard said. “Too many of the rich have warned the magistrate that if ye’re not caught, they’ll be sending in their own to take care of the problem. And, well, we canna have them going to such extremes. ’Tis not good for our business, lass.”
“Ye’re getting the noose,” the second guard loudly proclaimed. “Time’s come.”
Alesia’s throat tightened, a large lump forming there. This was a day she’d long since seen coming. After all, she’d gotten away with her thieving for far too long. Fighting was one thing, thieving was another.
The noose would soon be tightening around her throat. And no one would care. The bastard daughter of a whore. She didn’t even know who her father was, but her mother had often told her he was a warrior. A man who’d passed through the city in need of comfort and care after battle and had chosen her mother. They’d lain together, and the gift of Alesia had been left in her mother’s womb. When no other man had been able to get a bairn on her, this man had. And so her mother had thanked the stars for Alesia every single day—or at least she had once upon a time. In the last years of her life, her mother had found it hard to be grateful for a hungry child, a rotten one at that.
And now here that miracle-burden child was, cornered by a bunch of lying, thieving men with too much power to wield, and her life on the line.
She eyed her surroundings. The alley was narrow, the incline steep where the drunkards waited. Clothes out on lines above her head. Windows and doors shut tightly against her and anyone else. The ground was slick with filth, and there really wasn’t anywhere to run but toward her assailants at the back or those at her front.
The drunkards would probably be a safer bet. Their reflexes were dulled by drink.
Faking a lunge toward the guards, she whirled on her feet, anticipating the lack of traction on the slippery stone walk. Using the momentum, she propelled herself toward the two drunkards, wrenching a dagger from her boot and jabbing at their bellies as they approached. One leapt to the left, away from her blade, which caught just a fraction of his shirt, nicking a rib. His own leap to avoid her caused him to skid out of control and topple to the ground, banging his head hard. The second drunkard watched his friend go down and must have thought better of confronting Alesia, as evidenced by his expression, but she wasn’t going to give him that choice. Not when he’d been so unkind a moment before.
She jabbed her dagger toward him, and he took a fatal step and slid down the center of the slimy alleyway hill toward the two rushing guards. He fell into them, sending all three of them flying onto their arses. While she would normally like to stay and taunt them with her laughter, self-preservation bade her to run.
Alesia darted through the alleyways, her thighs burning at the uphill climb. She kept an eye out behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She could hear the two guards running around, asking if anyone had seen her, but no one would rat her out. Aye, they might all be a bunch of blackguards, and she a wharf rat, but they loved her all the same. Alesia never robbed from her fellow wharf dwellers, only from the rich nobles, and because of that, she was well respected among the commoners of Edinburgh.
The chase continued on for another two hours before the two guards gave up and went to bed. And thank goodness they did, because by then, Alesia’s feet were killing her, her legs were so sore she might collapse, and her eyes were having trouble staying open.
She ended up curling up inside an empty crate she found at the end of a pier, and pulling the lid over her for protection should they come calling again while she slept. With her dagger clutched in her hands, she listened, prepared to launch an attack on anyone who dared open up the lid to her hiding place. When all seemed remotely quiet, she allowed her eyes to close and to drift into sleep.
An uncertain amount of time later, Alesia bolted awake at the sound of voices and a dim light coming through the cracks of the crate.
“Put the word out.” The owner of the demand had a deep, resonating voice that sent a chill racing up her spine. “I want to have information on Santiago’s bastard by nightfall so we can be on our way.”
Bairn? At first she was certain they spoke of her, that it was a guard looking for her, although she didn’t recognize the voice. But talk of a bairn meant they were looking for someone else.
“And the reward, Cap’n?”
She peeked through the cracks, trying to remain quiet and to catch a glimpse of those who spoke. But all she caught sight of were two pairs of leather boots—one average looking, and one pair that looked like they belonged to a giant with thick, muscled calves with knees at least six to eight inches above his companion. She could see the hems of their plaids, but the small crack in the crate didn’t allow her to s
ee any further.
“Enough silver to make their eyes cross.” This was said by that deep, resonating voice again, which she decided belonged to the giant.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The giant sauntered away, back up toward the pier where several ships were docked, while the smaller man darted toward town.
When she could no longer make out their footsteps, nor anyone else’s, Alesia crept from the crate, searched for anything to cover her hair, and settled on a ripped burlap sack as a shawl and hood. She followed the one headed toward town, observing as he stopped a man on the street.
“Name Santiago mean anything to ye?”
The man shook his head. “Should it?”
“Aye, he’s a feared Spanish pirate.”
The fellow’s eyes widened with mockery. “Och, why didna ye say? We’ve a lot of those around here,” the man said sarcastically.
Alesia stifled a gasp and then a laugh as the average-sized man from the dock socked the lad right in the face and grumbled, “Smartarse.”
He changed up his speech a little bit with the next person he approached. “I’m looking for a bastard.”
The newcomer chuckled. “Edinburgh’s full of bastards. Good luck.”
This truly was most intriguing. And entertaining. Alesia ducked behind a moving cart when a guard passed by. The merchant winked at her and then nodded when the guard was out of sight. She hurried to catch up with the mysterious man.
“I’m looking for the bastard of Santiago,” he was saying to one of the tavern wenches.
“Canna say I’ve heard of him.”
“Could be a lass.”
“A lass, ye say? Plenty of those, too.”
A bastard lass… Alesia’s mind started to whirl with this new information. An idea was brewing, but not yet fully formed. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was, but she knew it would come to her.
“Ask your friends,” continued the man from the wharf. “Cap’n Thor is looking. Silver for the one who finds him or her.”
The Sea Devil: Pirates of Britannia: Lords of the Sea Page 2
