“Ye think me not strong enough, eh?”
“Let go of me!” She turned her face away, but he was deaf to her pleas. Looming over her, he forced her backward toward the bed, fingers ripping at the buttons that held her gown together, his mouth slashing brutally down upon hers. There was no love in this act, no tenderness. Nothing but lust, born of anger. The backs of her knees came up against the bed and she fell, twisting to the side in an effort to escape him. But his body fell upon hers, trapping her, pinning her down, his arms an enclosure that at any other time she would never have fought. Futilely, she kicked, struggled, beat upon his chest with useless fists.
Stop it. Oh please, for the love of God, stop…. Tears of despair, terror, and grief over the loss of the man she’d loved spilled down her cheeks in fat drops of crystal. The last buttons that held her gown together gave way, and then his hands were hot upon her flesh.
She was pinned like a butterfly. A sob caught in her throat and she bit down on her lip, squeezing her eyes shut to block the sight of his dark head as he tasted one swelling, pink-tipped breast.
“No, Sam,” she said brokenly. “Not this way, please. I beg of you, please, not like this—”
But he was already unfastening his breeches, and she saw that he was swollen, erect, and ready. She dug both palms into her eyes, wishing she could block out this vile act he was about to commit. But that stabbing thrust never came. A moment passed, two. Slowly, she opened her eyes. His face was pale, his eyes widening with the horror of what he’d been about to do. With a bitter curse he rolled away, his heavy breathing and her quiet sobs the only sounds in the room.
“Damn me,” he muttered. “Damn everything!”
Maria lay unmoving, the pillow on each side of her face damp with tears. Moments passed, long moments of thick, uncomfortable silence. Finally he got up, drew on his breeches, and turned to look down at her. Where there had been violence in his eyes before, now there was only agony and a desperate plea for forgiveness.
He leaned down and touched a finger to her wet cheek. But Maria flinched as though he’d burned her and squeezed her eyes shut, too hurt, too sickened by what he’d done—and by what he’d been about to do—to look at him.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, my little princess.”
She opened her eyes. He sat at the edge of the bed staring morosely at the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head bent, hands clasped behind his neck. Black hair flowed over his fingers. There was no triumph in his stance, just regret.
“I have no excuses, Maria, save that your beauty holds me even in anger, your sharp tongue goads me to do things I would never consider in less trying circumstances.” He lifted his head with great effort, his eyes dark with anguish. “Maria, love. Oh, what have I done?”
She sat up then and rose from the bed. He needed her—oh God, he needed her love, her comfort—but she did not go to him. Woodenly, she fastened what remained of her buttons, took her cloak down from its peg near the hearth. With stiff, detached movements, she put it on.
“Maria?”
She didn’t look back until she reached the door. There, she turned and faced him, her eyes flat and sad. “It isn’t what you’ve done, Sam. It’s what you’ve become.”
And then she was gone, leaving him with only the howl of the wind outside to keep him company.
Sickened, Sam looked at the shambles he’d made of her home. The chair leaned sadly upon a splintered leg. Blankets lay heaped upon the floor. The tankard, its handle twisted, its sides dented in, huddled in the corner. She’d called him a savage, a brute…and God help him, she was right.
He had almost forced himself upon her.
Sam Bellamy, pirate captain, leaned his face into his hands as silent tears of regret, self-disgust, and remorse leaked through his fingers and dropped softly upon the floor.
Chapter 13
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,
And dreaded as thou art!
— Cowper
Maria had a single destination in mind and she didn’t care that she’d have to pass straight through the middle of Eastham to reach it—the apple tree where she’d first met Sam. Why she was heading there, why she even wanted to go there, she didn’t know. There was nothing like adding salt to a wound. But as she stormed across the dark, lonely moors she could only attribute such self-torture to a determination to purge that beast from her heart once and for all.
Dawn broke as she reached the King’s Highway, but she found no joy in it. On she walked, moccasins weaving trails in and out of a jumble of day-old wheel ruts and hoofprints. She heard the song of a cardinal, the screech of a jay, the chatter of a hundred birds as the sun rose higher, but such happy twittering sounded hollow and empty to her ears, perhaps even mocking. When a squirrel rebuked her from the scruffy branches of a pine she ignored it, and even the bearberry shrubs whose bell-shaped white flowers lent a serene beauty to the dunes seemed bleak, somewhat sad.
I will not cry over him. That silent vow became a marching chant with every step she took. I—step—will—step—not—step—cry—step—over—step—him. In the past year alone he’d caused her enough heartache to last a lifetime. Yet the resolution not to cry was easier said than done. Where her heart had been there was only a pit of grief, for the Sam Bellamy she’d once known and loved was as dead as if he truly had perished with his ship.
And in his place walked a monster.
Just what sort of evil had she resurrected from the Whydah? Had she been out of her mind? She should have just left him there to die!
But no, never! Never, never, never! Even in its anguish her heart rebelled violently at the thought. For no matter what Sam had done to her, no matter what he’d become, there was one thing she couldn’t deny, try as she might to do just that.
She still loved him. Always had and always would.
“Damn you, Sam Bellamy!” she cried to the clouds floating in a sea of blue overhead.
She’d been mad to nurse him back to life. Insane! She wouldn’t have wasted the effort on a dying shark, a wounded wolf, so why him, a pirate, no less dangerous and surely more of a predator than either? But she knew that if a wolf should limp to her doorway, she’d bind its leg. If a shark lay thrashing in the surf, she would guide it back to sea and hold it until its mighty gills flared and it vanished in a swirl of foam.
She made a formidable sight as she crossed the town limits and boldly entered Eastham, never looking more like the witch she was thought to be, Satan’s wayward daughter grieving for the devil himself. Her golden hair swirled in wild, defiant glory about her face, her eyes were haunted. The people stared, some fleeing into their homes and dragging their children with them, others merely gaping as she passed. But no one made a move to stop her.
Passing Higgins Tavern where it lay tucked among the gnarled oaks and scrubby pines, she turned off the road and trudged through last year’s dead, rustling leaves. Sunlight filtered down through the trees and the earth grew soft and doughy beneath a blanket of pine needles. The trees thinned, the land sloped gradually downward, and there, its branches dressed in clothes of spring green and dripping with infant apples, stood the tree.
She sank down and leaned against its stout old trunk. Sunlight dappled her hair, played against her eyelids and made her sleepy. A sparrow flitted into a knothole high above her head, and she heard the incessant peeping of baby birds, the steady drone of a bumblebee. Here, where she’d thought to purge herself of anguish, the peacefulness of the meadow triumphed and dulled the sharp edges of her pain.
She plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. Serenity…oh, if only it could banish the awful memories! Sam Bellamy was naught but a pirate, a beast of prey who could give her nothing but heartache and a lifetime of pain. He was a hard man, an angry man, a man caught in grief and shame with no way out. Auntie had been right all along. She was better off without him! She didn’t need him!
It was too bad she couldn’t believe he
r own lies—for thoughts of a life without him brought the tears back to her eyes with more sting than ever. And suddenly the meadow wasn’t so peaceful anymore, but lonely and sad and full of memories that had never died—and never would.
Maria slept.
She awoke to long shadows and a fiery, muted sky. She was groggily aware that something bad had happened—and then the memory of what Sam had done slammed up against her heart and jolted her fully awake.
Sam.
But there was no sadness now. Indeed, while she’d slept, something else had arrived to arm and strengthen her. Anger. She stood up, brushing bits of grass from her skirts, remembering the last time she’d been beneath this very apple tree and had had to do the same thing. Then as now she’d been hurt, angry; then as now she’d felt abused and violated. Then—as now—Sam had been the cause.
But then, she’d been a frightened child. And Maria, who’d endured far too much to ever be called a child again, made up her mind to stop acting like a little girl, stop feeling sorry for herself, and return to her home. To think Sam had driven her from it in the first place! That she had allowed him! Oh, she hoped he was still there when she got back because if he was, she was going to give him a piece of her mind!
Bold and domineering he was, but he would not intimidate her! She’d meet that awful temper of his with unruffled calm, would arm herself against his defense of piracy with God, the Good Book, and her own heartfelt beliefs. Oh, she wouldn’t let him frighten her! Bully! Beast! Pirate! Maria slapped the wrinkles from her skirts and by the last light of day struck out across the darkening meadow and woods.
She saw candles flickering in its windows long before the dim outline of the tavern came into view through the trees. Guffaws, curses, the clink of glasses, whiffs of pipe smoke drifting out of the open doorway. Loneliness welled up inside her. Envy, as she listened to those happy sounds, and she suddenly wished that she could go to church and hear the pastor’s sermons, or sit in a circle with the other women and sew, or share cold cider with the villagers during autumn’s husking bees. She wished that she had a friend. They were all futile wishes. She was an outcast.
And all because of Sam Bellamy.
Her chin came up in fresh ire, and her long braid thumped rhythmically against her buttocks with each angry stride. In no time she reached the road, a starlit path through the trees that led back to the flat, lonely moors that were her home.
So caught up was Maria with thoughts of what she’d say to that—that barbarian—that she never heard the footsteps behind her. And it wasn’t until a voice called out through the darkness that she realized she was being followed.
“Why, if it ain’t the Sea Witch of Eastham, out for a nightly stroll! In a hurry, Maria Hallett?”
The voice was thick and slurred with the effects of ale. Maria spun around, suddenly uneasy. Despite the gloom, she recognized the two men immediately. Adam and Freddie Morse. They’d come here from Boston two years ago, and where they’d lived before that was anyone’s guess. When they weren’t out fishing in the bay—which wasn’t often, given their aversion to hard work—they could be found in the tavern. Neither was well liked by the people of Eastham, and even Prudence had complained about these two, for they’d never been ones to leave her with an extra coin for her efforts.
And here she was, the tavern a quarter mile behind her and an empty road stretching before her into the darkness. Her heartbeat quickened and she stepped up her pace.
Behind her their footfalls hastened, matching hers. “Don’t you want to talk to us, Maria? We happened to see you walkin’ by as we came out of the tavern and thought you might like some company. The roads ain’t safe for a young thing like you to be traveling on at night, ’specially seein’s how you’re not even supposed to be in town in the first place.”
“Aye,” Freddie added. “He’s right. They ain’t safe—’specially for a lady.”
“They ain’t safe for no one! Not even poor, unsuspecting souls like us! Never know who you might meet up with… Indians, wild animals—maybe even a witch, if it’s your unlucky night!”
“Or your lucky one,” Freddie said slyly.
Bursts of laughter followed. Maria fought down panic and the urge to run. To do so would be foolish, would admit her fear of them—and invite them to chase her. Bravely, she stopped, raised her chin, and faced them. “Yes, Adam, you’re quite right. I am a witch and therefore I have no need of your protection. Now please let me pass, or you shall regret it.”
Sour fumes of ale hovered about them. Their unwashed bodies stank of dead fish and sea brine, their hair lay greasy and matted against their heads. And to her dismay, they did not back away, but only laughed.
“Aw, Maria,” Adam said, baring his stained teeth in a smile that could only be described as a leer. “You don’t really think we believe those ol’ wives’ tales now, do you? A witch! We ain’t as dumb as the others, y’ know!”
“Oh, really?” Her attempt at a sarcastic purr sounded more like the mewing of a frightened kitten. “Then why did you throw stones at me like they did?”
“Stones? What stones?”
Freddie elbowed him in the ribs, and leaned toward him. “She means that day last fall.”
“Oh, that!” Again that awful leer, and now, drunken laughter that frightened her all the more. “How could I have forgotten? Tell her why we did it, Freddie.”
“No, you tell her!”
“Me? Hell, we just did it ’cause it was fun, that’s why!”
“Fun?” Maria took a step backward. It was bad enough that the villagers had hurled stones at her because of their fears—but these two had done so for a reason so awful, so terrible, that her gentle heart could not comprehend the very evil of it. They had done it for fun? Because they’d wanted to cause her pain and see her suffer?
Dear God, what would they do to her now?
It took all of her strength not to panic, all of her courage to maintain the height of her chin, the steadiness of her voice. “I think you’ve just proven that you’re exactly what I’ve always thought you to be—nothing but a pair of demented, nauseating beasts, both of you.” And as she turned away, their laughter rang in her ears and a thick, beefy paw caught her arm.
“Why don’t we show the lady how demented we really are, Adam?”
“No!” Struggling wildly, Maria fought to throw off Freddie’s arm. “Unhand me this instant! Let me go!”
She screamed, the perverted sound of their laughter ringing in her ears. She saw Adam’s fingers go to his waistband, felt cruel hands gripping her jaw and forcing her to watch. Frenzied, she drew back her hand and with a strength born of desperation, struck him full across his dirty, sweating face.
She bolted without waiting for a reaction. Pain ripped through her shoulder as fingers caught her arm and yanked her viciously back. She caught a glimpse of Adam, one hand against his cheek, the other holding up his breeches, and as she struggled wildly in Freddie’s grip he took a threatening step toward her.
She opened her mouth to scream—
And a voice rang out behind them, cold, ominous, and familiar.
“Touch her, and so help me God, I’ll gut ye like a mackerel.”
Adam froze. Slowly he looked up, the color draining from his face like sand from an hourglass. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, staring past her.
Maria followed his gaze. And there, standing calmly in the road not thirty feet away, was Sam.
His face was thunderous, his mouth a hard line of fury, his eyes blacker than death and perhaps even colder. Moonlight glinted against the pistols hanging from his neck. Not only was he wearing the coat she’d meant to surprise him with, he had indeed found the dagger and now had it clenched in one very capable hand. But Sam did not require any weapon to inspire terror—the savage, murderous wrath that emanated from him was enough.
“Freddie, it’s the ghost!”
And now he was striding purposefully forward, the devil straight from hell, tall an
d forbidding and full of deadly intent. Screaming, Freddie bolted off into the darkness, leaving Adam trying desperately to fasten his breeches.
Sam’s voice was cold, flat. “Take one step and you’re a dead man.”
But Adam, suddenly sober and paralyzed with terror, could not have moved if his life depended on it—and at the moment, it very well did. If there was ever any question in his mind about just who this apparition was, the way it stood—with legs braced slightly apart in the seaman’s way as though still in command of the quarterdeck of a mighty ship—quickly dispelled any lingering doubts. And now disdain flickered in those cold, dark eyes as they watched Adam fumbling with his breeches. A muscle twitched in jaw and Maria, backing fearfully away, saw that he was angrier than she had ever seen him.
He thrust her behind him in a sudden movement, his gaze never leaving Adam. His mouth curled in disgust as he watched Adam’s pitiful attempts to close his breeches. “Don’t bother,” he said, his voice cold, casual, and devoid of feeling. “You won’t be needing them.”
“Please, sir, don’t hurt me! I didn’t mean it, any of it! Honest, I swear—”
“Shut up, ye sniveling whelp!”
Cringing, and about to disgrace himself in the very breeches he was struggling to hold up, Adam whimpered like a child as the pirate captain circled him, making him feel like a market swine about to be butchered. Dark fingers tugged at that black beard, perhaps thoughtfully, more likely not, for Adam knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was no thought involved, no deliberation—his fate had already been decided. Tears streaked his cheeks; he closed his eyes, smelled the stink of his own fear. And then he heard the distant sound of voices. Patrons, no doubt alerted by his brother’s screams, were pouring out of the tavern and heading up the road. The pirate had heard it too, and by the way he was smiling—a slow, hellish grin that was not meant to reassure but to bode ill—it was clear that he, unlike Adam, had been aware of the approaching villagers for some time.
Pirate In My Arms Page 18
