But like all fairy tales, this one came to an abrupt end. From the corner of her eye Charlisse saw the red, angry face of her uncle as he pushed through the crowd. Clutching her arm, he yanked her away from Richard and hauled her out the door under the curious glares of the nobility.
Charlisse glanced back at Richard, who stood forlornly, a look of shock on his handsome face.
Back home, her uncle shoved her into her bedchamber. Piece by piece, he ripped off her gown until the floor around her was littered with azure satin. “I should have known not to leave you alone. You are a whore just like your mother. How could you let that man touch you?”
Once he had stripped her bare, he glared at her as he always did. And as always, staring at her unclad body incensed him further. He opened the drawer of her walnut credenza and grabbed the familiar whip. Forcing her down to her knees beside her bed in repentance, he beat her across the back. “Everyone at the ball will know you for the tramp that you are. Is that what you want?”
The whip was small, but its sting was not. With each strike, Charlisse leaned over her bed in agony, feeling the burn of the leather as it shredded her delicate skin. She did not scream. She would not give her uncle the satisfaction. But she could not stop the flood of tears that spilled onto her bedspread and soaked into the fabric leaving stains of painful memories. What had she done to deserve such repeated beatings? Was she a harlot like he said? Had her mother truly been a tramp?
After the whipping, under her uncle’s direction, she climbed into a hot bath, where he scrubbed her with a hard bristle brush, everywhere but her back. He scrubbed until she was red and raw, quoting passages from the Bible about sexual immorality, lust, and impurity. Afterward, he locked her in her chamber and left her there alone for days. The ritual was repeated with more frequency and fury as she grew older.
That was the first and last ball she ever attended. A year later, she heard Richard Farrow had married a young lady from Yorkshire. She never saw him again.
Angry shouts rescued Charlisse from her morbid memories. After rising from the bed, she crept up the companionway to see what trouble was brewing aboard this maddening ship.
As she neared the main deck, she heard the deep, commanding voice of the captain issue a challenge, but she was unable to see him through the mob of pirates.
The scraping of a sword against its scabbard rang. The horde of men parted, backing away from some perceived threat. Instantly, Charlisse saw Merrick, his dark eyes smoldering like coals, facing Kent who held the tip of his sword to his captain’s heart.
Fear froze Charlisse in place.
“Are you sure you want to do this, mate?” Merrick asked.
“Afraid you’ll lose the ship to me?” Kent flashed an arrogant smile. Something in the way he was standing, fidgeting back and forth, with a tight grip on the hilt of his cutlass, gave Charlisse the impression he was more frightened than he let on.
Merrick stood with calm assurance, sizing up his challenger. Then with lightning speed, he drew his cutlass. He whipped it against Kent’s blade with a loud clank, sending the first mate tumbling backward.
Recovering, Kent lunged at his opponent.
The pirates shouted and howled as the two battled in skillful swordplay. But it wasn’t just play. Theirs was a deadly game. The thought that Merrick might lose the battle caused Charlisse’s heart to race uncontrollably. Not only would she be left alone with his crew, but she hadn’t forgotten his strange reaction to the mention of her father’s name. He had heard of her father before, she was sure of it. If Merrick were to die tonight, she would never know what he knew.
Hilt to hilt they fought with strength and speed. The clanging of swords echoed through the humid night. Kent rushed Merrick. The captain cleared the foredeck railing with a graceful leap, barely evading a deadly thrust. Frustrated, Kent stormed up the ladder and charged his captain, slashing his sword before him. Blow after blow, he pushed Merrick back. He lunged. The tip of his blade sliced through Merrick’s shirt, leaving a trail of blood that glistened black in the moonlight.
Charlisse gasped.
Kent grinned. “I’m too fast for you, eh?” he said, panting.
“Come and see.” Merrick motioned with his fingers for Kent to approach.
The pirates shouted and placed bets, each for his chosen victor. Charlisse felt sick watching their greed and callous disregard for their captain and first mate. One of them would most likely die tonight.
Chapter 15: Grace
Charlisse watched as Kent slashed his cutlass once again toward Merrick. The captain sidestepped, bringing his blade in from one direction then quickly shifting to another. With a swift flick of his sword, he snapped the cutlass from Kent’s hand, sending it clattering to the deck. Merrick lowered his sword. He took a step toward his opponent. Kent drew a knife and lunged at his captain. Charlisse gasped. Her heart leapt to her throat.
Merrick arched to the side. The knife met air. Kent drew back for another deadly thrust, but before he could plant the blade, Merrick pounded the knife from the first mate’s grip with the hilt of his cutlass. The knife joined Kent’s sword on the deck with a clank that echoed over the ship. Chest heaving, Merrick positioned the tip of his blade at Kent’s heart.
Kent stood, breathless and wide eyed. The two men stared at each other. The crew began chanting, “Kill ’im, kill ’im, kill ’im”, each utterance more intense than the last.
The sharp point of Merrick’s cutlass brought forth a rivulet of crimson, staining the first mate’s shirt. “Seems your friends have turned on you.”
Kent swallowed. His eyes silently pleaded with Merrick. His upper lip twitched. Still, he did not beg for quarter.
Moments passed as the chanting continued. Merrick yelled for Sloane and Jackson. “Take him below and lock him up.”
The chanting ceased and the pirates, muttering in disgust, quickly divvied up their winnings as Jackson nearly lifted Kent off his feet and dragged him away.
From the foredeck railing, Merrick glared down on his traitorous crew. “Anyone else wish to challenge my authority?”
Charlisse shrank against the companionway railing, lest he see her.
“Maynerd? Royce?” He pointed his cutlass at the two men who stood in front of the pack.
The pirates averted their gazes and shook their heads.
“Then get back to work, you mutinous rats.” His fierce tone sent them scrambling across the deck. Sheathing his cutlass, Merrick wiped the sweat from his brow.
Charlisse slipped back down to the cabin, breathing a sigh of relief, convincing herself her feelings of joy stemmed from purely selfish reasons concerning her own safety and finding her father. Merrick was obviously the lesser of two evils when compared with Kent, but that did nothing to allay her fear of him. Having now witnessed his skill in battle and his severity toward his crew—not that it wasn’t richly deserved—she realized he was not a man to contend with.
Moments later, the cabin’s oak door slammed open, and the captain stormed into the room. He threw his baldric and pistols down onto a chair without a glance at Charlisse. Hands on the edge of his desk, he leaned forward, his damp, black hair falling in strings over his face.
Brighton crept in behind him, carrying a small satchel. Alarm tightened his features as he offered Charlisse a quick glance before approaching Merrick. “Um … um, Cap’n?”
Merrick whirled around. “Get out!”
“But ye be hurt.”
“And ye be taking sides against me on my own ship!”
Brighton hesitated, studying the red stain so stark against the white of Merrick’s shirt.
The captain took a step toward him. “Get out, or I’ll have a cannonball strapped to your boots and toss you overboard.” The ship’s doctor darted from the room, crashing into Sloane.
Shaking his head, Sloane entered and closed the door behind him. He cautiously eyed Merrick. The captain ran a hand through his slick hair and glanced at Charlisse’s as if
he’d just remembered she was there. The ferocity in his eyes frightened her.
Grabbing a bottle of rum, he took a heavy swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“That cuckoldy scamp be locked up below, Cap’n,” Sloane said.
Merrick nodded, taking another swig before slamming the bottle down on his desk and finding a seat in one of the leather chairs.
“You’re hurt.” Charlisse nodded toward his shirt.
“’Tis nothing, just a scratch,” he said, examining the wound and then gazing at her with curiosity.
Sloane got up. “Take off yer shirt.” He collected the bottle of rum and removed his violet scarf, releasing a mop of frizzy, gray hair.
Merrick lifted one eyebrow.
“Just do it, ye stubborn carp.”
With a sigh, the captain pulled his shirt over his head.
“What happened?” Charlisse feigned ignorance. She had seen the fight, true enough, but she still had no idea what had started it.
“I’ll tell ye what happened, miss,” Sloane said. “That young cocky jackanapes thought he’d be takin’ over the ship from the cap’n. Down to the devil with him!”
He dribbled some rum onto his scarf. “So he gave his challenge. The cap’n an’ him fought, an’ the cap’n won, as ye can see.”
An angry red slash angled across Merrick’s thickly muscled chest from his left shoulder to his arm. Sloane dabbed the wound with his scarf. Merrick winced. The muscles in his arms flexed, still bulging from the fight.
“That’s a waste of good rum, my friend.” He gave Sloane a pained grin.
“Why would Kent do such a thing?” Charlisse looked at the wall, the bed, the desk—anything but the broad expanse of Merrick’s chest. Yet her gaze kept seeking him. What was wrong with her?
“That rogue has wanted to take over my ship since he came aboard,” Merrick said. “He’s young, hot-tempered, and arrogant. When mixed with education and training, as in his case, that’s a volatile combination.”
“A bit like ye are, if I may say so.” Sloane chuckled, but upon seeing Merrick’s sour expression, added, “Or was.”
Sloane pressed the rum-soaked scarf onto Merrick’s wound again. Flinching, Merrick grabbed his friend’s hand. “Enough of your doting.”
“Ye’re needin’ a bandage.” Sloane pulled away in a huff.
Merrick gave him a dismissive wave then turned to Charlisse. “Frankly, I’m surprised Master Kent took this long, especially with you aboard, milady.”
Charlisse wasn’t sure what he meant. Kent had seemed quite civil to her. Still, she realized her predicament on this ship could be much worse without the captain. “I’m glad you won.”
“I’m overcome by your kindness.” Merrick’s eyes flickered with humor as he laid his hand on his heart. “At least I merit a position slightly above a cutthroat like Kent.”
“Not far above, I assure you.” Charlisse tossed her chin in the air.
Merrick lifted a brow. “I can make arrangements for you to spend time alone with Master Kent down in the hold. Perhaps, afterward, your opinion of me would change?”
Charlisse snorted and grabbed a lock of her hair. “I consider you no less a rogue than he is. The only difference is that he hides his villainy behind a façade of gentlemanly behavior, while you make no such pretense.”
Sloane chuckled.
Merrick glared at his friend. “Go get Jackson. We need to plan our next move.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Sloane returned the rum to the table and headed out the door. “An’ I be gettin’ ye a bandage too,” he said before closing it.
Charlisse silently chastised herself for being so rude. When would she learn to control her tongue? The last thing she wanted to do was ignite this volatile man’s rage. Besides, she must find out what he knew about her father. If she angered and insulted him, why would he tell her anything? A trickle of blood escaped his wound. She wanted to wipe it away. She wanted to tell him that her thoughts were filled with naught but him. Instead, she sat silently, barely breathing, while his gaze took her in with those intense eyes that always seemed to be reading her mind. They were mesmerizing, and she knew without a doubt that if she looked into them too deeply or for too long, she would be forever under their spell.
How could she, a supposed lady, find this pirate, this knave, so appealing? It made no sense, and she attributed it to an unchaste flaw in her character—one her uncle had assured her she possessed. Impure tendencies or not, she would not give in to the feelings that consumed her when he was near.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“First, I intend to get us out of this trap.” Standing, he moved toward her then eased beside her on the bed.
Her heart fluttered. Must he sit so close to me? “But what of the crew?” she asked, scooting away, trying to mask her inner turmoil.
A grin appeared on his lips. “What of them?”
She could smell the rum on his breath—or was it from Sloane’s doctoring? “Will they follow your command?”
“For the time being,” he answered. “Until the next time a challenge is made, which I hope I have pushed further into the future by my victory today.”
He touched his wound and winced, then looked up at her again.
He was so close, she felt the heat from his body.
“A captain grows stronger each time he quells an attempted mutiny,” he said. “He gains the respect and fear of his crew, making it harder for the next to challenge him. The only thing is,” he hesitated, looking toward the door, “not killing Kent may have put me in a weaker position with the men.”
“Kill him? After the battle was over? Why?”
“He challenged me.” He shrugged. “It’s the code pirates live by.”
Disgust soured her stomach. “Why didn’t you kill him then?”
“It’s not the code I live by anymore. Besides, he reminds me of someone I knew once. If there was hope for that man, there could be hope yet for Kent.”
Sincerity warmed his eyes. Did he speak of himself?
He raised and lowered his arm, stretching it. His wound began to bleed.
Instinctively, she retrieved his discarded shirt from the chair and pressed it over his cut. His hand rose to cover hers, and she immediately regretted her action. Their eyes met once again. Her heart gave a traitorous leap even as her stomach clenched. His other hand stroked her cheek. Heat radiated through her.
Slowly, he leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers.
Charlisse jumped off the bed and stepped back.
One dark brow raised. “I wasn’t going to bite.”
Moving to the other side of the cabin, she tried to catch her breath. She had to divert his attention. Perhaps this was a good time to ask about her father. “This morning, when I said my father’s name,” she began, her voice trembling, “you seemed to know him.”
Father. Perhaps if she had known the love of a true father, she wouldn’t be so easily taken in by the charms of this pirate.
Studying her, Merrick stood and tossed the bloody shirt to the floor, his soft mood instantly hardening. “He cannot be the same man.”
“But, wh—”
The door swung open and in stomped Jackson and Sloane. After a cursory glance her way, they joined Merrick at his desk, where the captain began explaining his plan of escape.
Charlisse retreated to her spot by the window and gazed out over the black sea, feeling frustration bubble up inside her. Merrick knew something about her father, yet every time she mentioned his name, he seemed to grow angry, avoiding her questions.
After a long hour of discussion, Merrick rolled up his charts and turned to Jackson. “Post a night watch just in case our Spanish friends decide to pay us a visit.” The large man nodded and marched from the room. Sloane remained next to the desk.
Merrick donned a clean shirt and strapped on his weapons.
“You’re to take the galleon tonight?” Charlisse asked.
�
��No, milady.” A mischievous twinkle crossed his eyes. “But we will prepare a surprise for her in the morning.” He tied his hair back and fitted on his scarf. “Sloane will watch over you until I return.”
Then winking at her, he put on his hat and left before Charlisse could protest.
She turned at Sloane. “I’m sorry you are always left with the task of being my nursemaid.”
“Ah, don’t be worryin’ yer pretty little head ’bout that, miss,” he said, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “I be gettin’ too old fer this pirate stuff anyways.”
Charlisse moved to the bed. “Do you know a man named Edward Terrance Bristol?”
Sloane laid his head back and closed his eyes, but she did not miss the slight tightening of his features. “Now, ye best be gettin’ some sleep. ’Twill be a long one tomorrow.”
“Why is that?”
“Tomorrow, we take a Spanish galleon.”
Chapter 16: The Kiss
When Sloane began to snore, Charlisse laid her head on the pillow and tried to rest, but once again sleep evaded her. An eerie silence crept over the ship as it sat passively in the shallows of the islands. Maybe she missed the rhythmic movement of the sea as the ship creaked and moaned in exuberant song as it sailed across the waters. But tonight, the Redemption slept soundly—not even the usual revelry of the pirates shattered its peaceful repose. It was unnerving.
Charlisse got up and paced the tiny cabin. She ran her fingers over the books lining the shelves, shaking her head at the exquisite collection of fine literature—so at odds with the character of a pirate captain. Perhaps she could find something among his things that would help her understand him—his weaknesses, strengths, what mattered to him. Avoiding the bottles of rum, she picked up a gold figurine of a soldier, examined the workmanship, then tried on a silver ring embedded with rubies that lay beside it. It was too big for her small fingers. She admired the brass candlesticks, the fine silver chalice. Lifting a velvet bag, she sifted through its glimmering contents—rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. Lustrous pearls glowed from within a small silver chest, threatening to overflow onto the captain’s desk. Shuffling through the charts tossed about haphazardly, she spotted the open Bible. What attracted Merrick to this ancient book? Her uncle had told her it was the word of God, but was it? Had anything he told her been true? She started to walk away. But wait. Maybe this was Merrick’s weakness—this God of his. Sitting, she scanned the open page.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 10
