Wiping perspiration from her forehead, she tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. Where had the men come from? How many were there? Did they have a ship, or were they stranded here like she was? A sliver of smoke ascended from beyond the small peninsula. Their camp was close—close enough to sneak over and take a peek. She climbed back into her tree and waited for nightfall.
The rest of the day dragged on endlessly as the temperature soared higher. She tried to sleep, but her nerves were strung tight. Sounds of male laughter and occasional musket shots pierced the noises of the jungle.
Finally, the sun touched the western horizon, withdrawing its blistering heat. A slight breeze fluttered the leaves. Throat parched, Charlisse wished she had not spilled her water. Still she waited. When darkness overtook the island, she climbed down from her tree, making sure her grip on each branch was secure before moving to the next. Her ankle throbbed. Her heart pounded. At the bottom, she groped in the darkness, but as her eyes adjusted to the night, she quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her foot. She stubbed her toe against a rock, tripped, and groaned, hands flying to cover her mouth. Had they heard her? Fortunately, the ocean waves had picked up in ferocity, and their crashing on the shore drowned out any other sounds, even the humming of the insects. But a full moon was also rising, illuminating the landscape, forcing Charlisse to stick to dense forest and avoid open spaces.
She had never ventured out much after dark, due mostly to her fears—fear of the unknown, fear of the unseen, fear of vicious night creatures conjured in her imagination. But tonight the vicious night creatures were real. And she was heading straight toward them.
As she neared the men’s camp, the noise of revelry grew—laughter, curses, shouts, the crackle of a huge fire. A pistol shot thundered the night sky. Charlisse jumped. Wavering in her resolve, she stood motionless. Perhaps it would be better to retreat quietly and die alone in her tree. These men did not sound friendly. Yet curiosity drove her forward, along with a resurging hope that somehow she might be delivered from this hellish island.
Crouching behind a bush, she made out the shapes of men sitting on the beach. She crawled as close as she dared to the edge of the jungle, her heart pounding so furiously, she feared it would betray her presence. Even in the cool night air, perspiration moistened her body, pulling her petticoat in a tight embrace. Something crawled on her hand. She shook it off without making a sound. Had she become so accustomed to the heat and monstrous insects that they no longer bothered her?
So many men! Forty at least. But were there others she could not see? Perhaps they were skulking about the jungle behind her. Turning her head, she listened for any unusual movement before returning her attention to the camp. The men sprawled around the fire, passing jugs back and forth while chomping on some kind of meat.
Food. The smell of it was intoxicating! Her mouth watered, and she wondered where her body found the moisture. She shook uncontrollably, whether from hunger or fear, she didn’t know.
Some of the men stood and pushed each other in heated arguments. Others staggered in the sand, cursing. The dark outline of a ship loomed offshore, tipped in the shallow water and tied with ropes to sturdy trees that lined the beach. A welcome sight, indeed. But from the looks of her crew, it might as well be full of holes for all the good it would do Charlisse.
Several minutes passed. As she watched the men, she realized what they were. Many a story had made its way back to England about the bands of sea-roving thieves that haunted these waters—violent, depraved ruffians who attacked ships without provocation and ravished innocent women.
Pirates.
Better to die a painful death alone than at the hands of these savages. Charlisse turned to leave, but the smell of roasting meat drew her back, her hunger proving stronger than her fears.
The laughter and shouting eventually died as the pirates, overcome with rum, began to pass out in the sand. If she waited long enough, she might be able to enter their camp unnoticed. Cowering behind the bushes, not ten yards from the fire, she waited for the remaining men to drink themselves into an unconscious stupor.
Finally the camp was silent. Arrested by terror, she remained in place, her stomach cramping in ravenous expectation. The crackling of the fire subsided. The flames reduced to glowing embers, casting ghostly shadows on the tree trunks that surrounded the camp. Waves splashed onto shore, spewing their moonlit foam as far as they could before retreating.
From her hidden shelter, she looked down and selected a round stone the size of her palm. She held it in her hand, assessing its weight, then tested her ankle for a possible flight. Standing, she cast the stone into the middle of the camp and waited, breathless, ready to flee should the pirates awake. No one stirred.
Nauseated and dizzy, she crept from her hiding place and inched forward, keeping a watchful eye on everything around her. Each noise seemed amplified, especially her footsteps—sounding more like an elephant stomping over loose shale, than a thin, frightened girl creeping across the sand. Still, no one moved.
As she came closer, she heard the men snoring and grunting. She stood in the midst of them now, her eyes fixated on one thing—the black pot sitting near the fire. Licking her lips, she stepped over the sleeping forms, careful not to touch any part of them.
A loud thump and a groan sounded from her right. She froze, barely breathing, then slowly turned toward the noise. A jug of rum lay on its side, gulping its contents onto the sand next to the twitching form of a burly pirate muttering in his sleep. Fighting a wave of dizziness, she closed her eyes and stood still. Her mind engaged in an intense debate with her stomach whether to turn and run as fast as she could, or keep going and satisfy the needs of her flesh. Her stomach won. She continued onward.
When she came to the fire, she stooped and reached inside the black kettle. Something rustled behind her. Fingers poised over the chunk of meat in the still-warm pot, she froze. Waited. Heard nothing but the snoring pirates and the crashing surf. Gingerly, she closed her hand around the food.
“Well, well,” a deep voice said, “do we have a little thief in our midst?”
Chapter 6: Island Captive
Charlisse looked up into the piercing gaze of the most fearsomely handsome man she had ever seen. He towered over her, the breadth of his shoulders hinting at a powerful chest and arms hidden beneath his baggy white shirt. He wore dark breeches tucked into black boots that climbed to his knees. Two leather belts, one strapped to his shoulder and the other around his waist, held pistols, one large knife, and a cutlass. A blue scarf covered the top of his head, under which a mass of jet-black hair fell in wild disarray to his shoulders. His lips parted in a playful smile as his penetrating stare dove deep into her soul. The warm chunk of meat slid from her shaking hand and landed in the sand by the stranger’s feet.
♥♥♥
Merrick had noticed the girl’s presence as soon as she entered the camp. With his head lying on a fallen log, he’d watched her from under his hat. She looked harmless enough, but his curiosity piqued on two accounts—where on God’s green earth could she have come from, and why would any woman take such a risk? As she crept toward the pot of meat near the fire, he realized she was after the food, and he decided to have a bit of fun with her.
Now, she stood shaking before him, a ragged, pathetic thing covered with filth and bug bites. Twigs, grass, and dirt matted a tangled mess in her long hair. Her feet were bare and bleeding, and she wore the remnants of a white petticoat, now soiled and torn. Slowly she raised her face to his, the moonlight illuminating her features.
Merrick lifted his brow in pleasant surprise. “Alas, what rare beauty hides beneath this ragged disguise?” he quoted from a poem he had read recently.
She stared at him wide-eyed for a second before narrowing her gaze. In a quick burst of energy that belied her condition, she dashed off toward the jungle. Merrick caught up to her in seconds and clamped his arm around her waist. She thrashed in his grasp like a wild animal. Th
en suddenly spent, her body sagged against his.
♥♥♥
Charlisse heard male voices—at first faint and muffled, then growing louder, then fading away. An irritating buzz rang in her head as a pulsating heat enveloped her.
Something cool touched her forehead.
“Wonder where she came from, Cap’n?” A gruff voice said. The coolness migrated to her neck. “Pretty young thing. Looks like she’s been here awhile.”
Charlisse tried to open her eyes, but they felt as though they had been pasted shut. She managed to pry her lids apart and was confronted by a vicious-looking man with long brown hair, an earring, and a patch over one eye. Startled, she gasped and struggled to sit.
“Whoa, little one.” Strong hands forced her back down. “I think she’s comin’ to, Cap’n.”
Her head throbbed. Above her, palm fronds fluttered like feathers, providing shade from the searing sun. The crash of waves and chirp of birds swirled atop a humid breeze, making everything seem like a hazy dream. A man knelt beside her. She remembered those dark, intriguing eyes from the night before. Was it last night? How long have I been unconscious?
“Can you eat?” he asked.
Charlisse attempted to rise.
He propped blankets behind her and nudged her back down. “You have a fever, miss.” Then glancing over his shoulder, he called for someone to bring soup.
Everything spun. She peered through her lashes at the man beside her. A striking man with a firm jaw and eyes the color of ebony. A brace of pistols crossed his chest and a cutlass hung at his side.
The man with the eye patch laid his hand on her forehead. “She be in the thick of it, Cap’n, but I don’t think it’ll kill ’er.”
“This is Brighton, our ship’s doctor,” the dark-haired man reassured her, “and I’m Captain Merrick.”
The soup arrived, carried by a short, stout man with shaggy gray hair that sprouted from his head and chin. His smile revealed two gaping holes on his bottom row of teeth as he handed the bowl to Brighton.
Charlisse gazed at the three filthy brutes and knew her situation was extremely perilous, no matter how courteously they behaved at the moment. Visions of Jack flung over the pirate’s shoulder, limp and quiet, passed through her mind. She shuddered. Closing her eyes, she wished for death and whispered, “Pirates.”
One of them chuckled, and suddenly strong arms reached behind her and raised her up.
“Try to eat something,” a deep voice said.
The broth smelled delicious. The bowl touched her lips, and she took a sip, allowing the warm liquid to slide down her parched throat. Another sip and she forced her eyes open. The captain crouched only inches away, supporting her back. A musky, briny scent drifted around her as his warm breath caressed her skin.
“Jus’ a wee bit more, miss,” the doctor said, tipping the bowl.
After gulping down her last swallow, Charlisse sank onto the sandy blankets and looked up into the captain’s dark eyes. He was saying something about sleeping and getting well, and that she was safe, but she couldn’t quite make it out. She was sure she must be dreaming anyway.
Images like the scattered pieces of an incomplete puzzle drifted through her mind—the bright stars of the night sky, the cool ocean breezes, someone covering her, the heat of the day, the scorching sun flickering in her eyes through the palm fronds overhead, the sound of laughter, shouting, a bird squawking.
Brief memories of being fed more soup, of male voices around her, and muscular arms supporting her, flickered through her thoughts. One minute she burned up with fever, trails of perspiration trickling down her face and neck, the next minute she woke, shivering uncontrollably.
More than once her mind drifted from her present agony, venturing to a dark place where painful memories lurked, waiting to torment her. But she did not allow them dominion for long. Instead, she clawed her way back to semi-consciousness, preferring her present suffering to the agony of being trapped forever in her past.
♥♥♥
Captain Merrick supervised the careening of the ship, doing his best to speed up the process. His men toiled, bare-chested and sweating in the blistering sun, scraping and burning weeds and barnacles that were cemented on the Redemption’s keel. Nearly done, they were now patching places where the wood had begun to rot.
“Prepare the pitch, Jackson,” he commanded.
“Aye, Cap’n.” The bulky man’s deep voice resounded as he marched off. Jackson, the ship’s master gunner, stood a head above Merrick, his black skin glistening with sweat in the blazing sun. His shaved head resembled a cannon ball, except for three gleaming, gold rings that dangled from one ear. Merrick had rescued him from slavery aboard a Spanish merchant ship a year ago and offered him his freedom and a pirate’s life.
Now, he must rescue this abandoned lady. A far harder task. Once the ship was ready, he would bring her on board, where he would have a better chance of protecting her. The woman added an unwanted responsibility to his already arduous tasks as captain. He saw the way the men looked at her, despite her disheveled and sickly appearance. He knew that with a little rum and an opportunity, they wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a young, sick girl who could not defend herself—even though they had signed Merrick’s articles to the contrary.
The girl’s fever had broken early that morning and she slept peacefully now. She had been anything but peaceful during the past few days. At the height of her fever, she had screamed out in anger, pleading for help, terror distorting her comely features.
Something terrible had happened to this girl. What, he could not imagine, nor how she came to be alone on this island. One thing was certain, a young, fragile thing like her did not belong in the middle of the Caribbean, especially not with a band of pirates. He must take her to the nearest civilized town as soon as possible, away from his men—and away from him.
Chapter 7: Pirates
Charlisse regained consciousness long before she opened her eyes. Lying motionless, she listened as she tried to piece together the events that brought her here. As her memory returned, so did her fear, striking like a sharp knife in her heart. Shouts, curses, and the crackle of a fire assaulted her ears, and she knew she had not been dreaming.
She had been captured by pirates.
Peeking through her lashes, she saw men moving in the distance. Another stood closer with his back to her. She rose to her elbows, straining her aching muscles. Her world tilted. None of the pirates looked her way. Their ship lingered just offshore, tipped on its side, tied to several trees by thick ropes strung from its mast and hull.
This might be her best chance to escape—before anyone knew she was awake. She could dash into the forest, and by the time they realized she was gone, maybe they wouldn’t have the energy or desire to find her.
She struggled to sit. Her head pounded, and her arms shook beneath her. Collapsing back onto the blanket, she tried to catch her breath. The nearest pirate turned and grinned, scratching his gray beard. She recognized him as the man who’d brought her the soup. “Cap’n,” he yelled.
Several of the men turned her way. A tall man in a billowing white shirt—the captain—headed toward her.
“I take it you’re feeling better?” Merrick raised a brow and knelt beside her. The doctor approached behind him.
Charlisse’s gaze drifted over the three pirates: the doctor, the one with the eye patch; the older pirate, who had brought her the soup; and the captain, who, though still a frightening sight, wore clean, stylish clothes and carried himself with the air of a gentleman. Quite in contrast to his two friends. His bold perusal frayed her already tattered nerves. Nonetheless, she determined to return his stare with all the confidence she could muster.
“I demand you let me go at once,” she said with a raw, cracked voice that leeched the authority from her command.
Merrick smiled. “And where would you be going, young miss?” He waved his hand at the lush scenery. “You are on an island,
and a rather small one at that.”
Charlisse blew out a sigh. “I assure you, sir, that fact has not escaped my attention.”
The pirates exchanged chuckles.
“Am I free to go,” she asked, “or am I your prisoner?” Charlisse kept her gaze steady, forbidding her fear to surface.
“May I remind you, miss,” the captain’s eyes sparkled, “’tis you who wandered into our camp, not the other way around.”
“What do you intend to do with me?” Her breath came fast.
“Never fear, young miss. We mean you no harm.”
She didn’t believe him. Not for a moment.
“I’ll go get ye some more soup,” the older pirate announced, getting up.
Brighton touched her forehead. “Fever’s gone, Cap’n. She just be needin’ rest now.”
Overcome by familiar feelings of helplessness, tears welled behind Charlisse’s eyes. She forced them back with effort gained from years of practice, far back into a deep, dark place—a locked room reserved for all her unshed tears.
Noises behind the captain caught her attention. A small group of pirates approached, headed by a young man wearing taffeta breeches, silk stockings, and a rich crimson damask waistcoat. His elegant apparel and cultivated demeanor seemed ill-suited for the company he kept. A grotesque and filthy band of men sauntered behind him, leering at her as they drew near. Charlisse’s heart grew faint.
“Captain, aren’t you going to introduce us to the lady?” the leader asked, flashing dark eyes and an icy smile.
“Sleep,” the captain ordered her. “We’ll talk later.” He stood to intercept the advancing men, saying something to them she could not hear. With grunts and curses, the rogues scurried away, but their elegant leader continued to argue with Merrick. Finally, he too turned and stomped down the beach.
Charlisse wondered why the captain had kept his crew from her. Perhaps he was waiting for her full recovery—or maybe he intended to keep her for himself. She allowed for no other possibilities, for that would be a fool’s optimism. And she was not a fool.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 4
