Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  Chapter Nine

  Luísa’s head throbbed as if it had been smashed in a press. Her eyes opened slowly, painfully, forcing lids that felt like someone had poured thick syrup over them. She looked down at her torn, stained shirt. Not syrup, she winced. Blood.

  What of the Coral? Had the crew survived the day?

  She was bound hand and foot, and had been relieved of her cutlass, but when she pressed the side of her boot against the bed frame, she felt the hidden blade. They hadn’t found that. It was some comfort at least, though she didn’t know how it would help her at this point. If the blade was truly enchanted, she could sorely use that magic about now.

  She forced herself to a sitting position and grimaced. Everything hurt and moving too fast made her woozy. That lump on her head felt as big as a casaba melon.

  Luísa studied her surroundings, searching for a way out. Judging by the feather bed and the richly carved woodwork, this was the captain’s quarters. Clean, gilded and as fussy as French decoration would allow.

  Her blood stained the bed linen. How appropriate. No French sod’s quarters would be complete without the blood.

  The ferocity of the attack numbed her still. Most pirate-hunters take their prize intact, but the Vengeance seemed determined to sink the Coral. What had they taken—besides her?

  If they had stolen any gold, it would’ve been taken here first so the captain could take an account, but she seemed to be the only trophy. The attackers fought a focused battle, every man in a direct line from her cabin at the top deck to the Vengeance. Was it possible…

  Bloody French.

  She was the prize.

  But for what reason? They had already taken Papa, and the Coral was no match for the brawny Vengeance. There was no reason to take her, unless Saint-Sauveur thought to make her his bride even without Papa’s consent.

  Bride. Rubbish. Saint-Sauveur wouldn’t have bothered with the likes of her when he had enough money to buy any woman. If it wasn’t money and it wasn’t a bride, what other reason would he have to steal her?

  There was always pride and retribution. Saint-Sauveur wouldn’t pass up a chance to hurt her father for making him look the fool. But even this seemed a bit extreme.

  Luísa worked her way toward a bedpost and tried to loosen the ropes on her wrists. If a sailor knew one thing, it was how to tie a knot. And the knots on her bonds gave no quarter.

  Craning her neck, Luísa was able to look out a port window, but all she could see was the blue-green milk of the ocean. The Vengeance sailed to the east and she moved fast, clipping the water in a wedge.

  She felt for the knife tucked in her boot. There’d be no trouble in retrieving it, but once free, where would she go? For now it was best to remain bound. It would do her no good if Saint-Sauveur knew she still had a weapon. But if he meant to rape her, by God, he’d try it only once.

  Luísa steadied herself for the inevitable. If she had to die, she planned to take as many of them with her as she could.

  The floor timbers creaked and Luísa’s breath caught in her throat. The door lever turned this way and that, but the door didn’t open. It was locked.

  Whoever was on the other side crept away and Luísa watched the door with dread. Again the timbers creaked and this time she heard something scratch the inside of the door lock. Within seconds, the door sprung open.

  Luísa didn’t know who was going to be on the other side, but she definitely didn’t expect to see a half-naked Daltry. The only thing he had on was a torn pair of white drawers, and those barely hung on his flesh.

  She stared wide-eyed as he closed the door behind him then looked down at her with a boyish grin.

  “How did you—”

  He pressed his fingers to his lips and shushed her.

  “Easy, kitten. We aren’t out of danger yet,” he whispered.

  He lifted her chin, tilting it to either side. “Where did this blood come from?”

  “Some of it is mine. Someone hit me. But the rest—” She shuddered. “The rest is from Paqua. He didn’t give me up without a fight.”

  Daltry turned and eyed the door. The drone of voices drew nearer. It stopped by the door before drifting away.

  “I can’t free you yet, Luísa. Saint-Sauveur will suspect that I’m on board. But I will come for you as soon as we near land. He probably won’t have his way with you until we reach the Isla de Sempiterno.” He petted her cheek as a comfort. “Try to stay calm.”

  “Calm! Are you mad?” She screeched in a hoarse whisper. “Saint-Sauveur attacked the Coral, killed my friends, and you want me to stay calm? Set me free so I can run a blade through that cockscomb’s gullet.”

  Daltry took her in his arms and whispered in her ear. “We’re both trapped here until we reach land. I need you to be brave—and submissive,” he said in warning. He pushed the curls off her forehead and kissed it. “I’ll be back for you. I promise.”

  He listened by the door, then doubled back and pulled out a shirt and trousers from Saint-Sauveur’s clothes chest. As soon as he dressed he turned toward her and winked before making his way out once more.

  “No, Daltry. Wait!” She begged in a strained whisper. But it was no use. He was gone.

  What kind of man can escape iron shackles and board a ship unseen? And why was he helping her, she a pirate and he a pirate-hunter?

  Englishmen and their daft ways! How did they ever come to rule the world?

  Luísa lay down and closed her eyes, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship. The air freshened as a stiff wind carried them further away from the Coral.

  Dios, she prayed in silence. No matter what happens to me, let the crew be all right. She couldn’t bear to lose any more of her family.

  The doorknob twisted again then opened. The man who haunted her nightmares now interrupted her prayers.

  Saint-Sauveur marched into the room, his hand gripped tightly on the door handle. He looked all about the cabin and sniffed the air.

  “Dumont!” he bellowed.

  A thin wiry man appeared, swiping the bandana off his head and bowing to his master. “Oui, Monsieur.”

  “I told you to lock this door.”

  “I did, Monsieur. I swear.”

  Luísa watched Saint-Sauveur’s face grow hard before he reared back and slapped the man to the floor.

  “Imbécile. It was unlocked! If my orders are disobeyed again, I will slit your tongue for lying.”

  “Oui, Monsieur. Oui,” the poor slob quivered as he scraped his way out of the room.

  Had Saint-Sauveur been more observant, he would have noticed the telltale signs of wet footsteps on the floorboards. Dumont, also barefoot, mercifully blurred the previous footprints away.

  Saint-Sauveur slammed the door behind him and eased toward Luísa. His eyes looked like black eels when he squinted at her. His long hair was disheveled and Luísa couldn’t help but stare at the mangled remains where an ear should have been. Ragged and scarred, it looked as if it had been bitten off.

  “Was someone in this room with you?”

  Luísa scooted further up the bed. If only Daltry had untied her.

  “Answer me!”

  She shook her head. “No,” she mumbled, trying not to stare at his tattered ear.

  He pulled her to a sitting position and sat next to her on the bed. His hands slid down the collar of her shirt and felt around her breasts, but they didn’t seem to be his objective.

  Luísa shuddered with rage as he ripped her thin chemise with his clumsy, fat hands and bared her bosom. He seemed uninterested in undressing her further. Instead he focused on the moonstone pendant that hung low between her breasts.

  He fingered it, his breath rasping out in contentment.

  “Bon! Bon! C’est excellent. I knew you would have it.” He sat next to her on the bed and fondled the gem. “Magnifique. This is even better than I had planned.”

  A breathy chuckle turned into a laugh and he grinned at her like a drunken bear. His right hand
ran down her bodice and then up again, cupping her breast. “Nothing would please me more than to tear your maidenhead, but I have more important plans ahead. There’ll be time enough to deflower you.” He squeezed one nipple until it hurt. “Still, it doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with you.”

  Saint-Sauveur pushed her down on the bed then opened his codpiece, exposing himself to her. “Time for your first lesson, ma petit.”

  Chapter Ten

  Luísa’s humiliation was short-lived. Saint-Sauveur groped her for a few minutes and rubbed his flaccid member between her legs, but it never swelled any further than a bruised thumb. The more he stroked it, the shyer it became, until he rolled off her with an exasperated grunt.

  Impotent bastard!

  Nothing was said between them and he left her alone until the sun waned at the horizon. What could he want with her that he couldn’t take from any other woman? Was he stroking nothing more than his vanity by bringing her here?

  A scurry of feet and excited shouts echoed topside. Luísa couldn’t see anything from her window, but by the sound of the bells and the rapid deflation of sails, she knew it could mean only one thing. Land.

  Daltry said he’d be back. Where was that English scoundrel?

  A sinking feeling welled through her. Daltry could have been caught. If she had any chance for escape, this was it, and she’d have to do it on her own.

  Luísa worked the bonds on her wrists against the bedpost, scraping them so hard her flesh bled. Her attention shifted when she heard the lock on the door scratch once more.

  Blast these ropes! If Saint-Sauveur was coming back to finish what he started, she had to get them loose.

  Silently, Daltry peered into the room. A smile washed over his face when he saw her, caught like a cat tangled in yarn. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. This time he had on boots, a ragged pair that didn’t match the finery he had stolen from Saint-Sauveur’s clothes chest.

  Daltry said nothing, pulling a knife from his belt and flipping her over on her side and lifting her feet to his thigh. He sliced through her bonds with one pass. As soon as her feet were free, he sat her upright. Once again, he slashed through the ropes with a single swipe, flashing a grin as wide as the shoreline.

  She massaged her wrists even as he pulled her to her feet.

  “Listen carefully, kitten. We won’t speak again until we are well away from here.” He spoke with an accusing finger directed at her nose. “We’ve arrived at the Isla de Sempiterno, but we’re at the far south cove. If we get separated, I want you to go northeast until you come to a rise shrouded in mist. You must reach Sanctuary before Saint-Sauveur discovers you’re gone.”

  “We could steal the jollyboat. I saw at least two when they dragged me on board.”

  He shook his head. “Saint-Sauveur has a full crew with ears like foxes. We’ll never be able to lower a boat without them hearing. We swim.”

  “Swim?” The mere mention sickened her. She was a terrible swimmer.

  Daltry looked down at her. “You can swim, can’t you?”

  “Of course, I can swim,” she said with wounded pride.

  Daltry arched a brow with obvious skepticism, but said nothing more as he grabbed a hat off Saint-Sauveur’s dresser and hurried her to the door. He listened by the door for a moment before poking his head out, motioning for her to follow.

  Daltry surprised her with his acute hearing. Several times as they made their way topside he shoved her into the shadows long before men approached.

  When they finally made it to the open air, he pushed Saint-Sauveur’s tricorne over her head. It was too big and it flopped from side to side. She steadied it on her head, knowing she needed it only long enough to hide her silhouette in the falling shadow of twilight.

  The night air cast a shroud in gray velvet, but the Vengeance cut through it like a hand in a glove. The order was given to weigh anchor. It was impossible to see how close they were to land, but it couldn’t be far. She smelled land, a whiff of moist earth and greenery that carried on the breeze.

  Daltry rushed Luísa to the railing. He looked in either direction and helped her over the side. “Work your way down. Smartly now.”

  She clamored down the side, the tricorne falling into the drink as soon as she climbed over the railing. No matter. It had served its purpose.

  Her fingertips wedged themselves on every nub and pocket of the ship’s ribs. The air was cool and salty and she heard the waves lap gently against the hull. At least the sea was calm. They wouldn’t have to fight the tide swimming to the bay.

  Daltry was above and gaining on her position. He moved like a panther, silent and sure. He edged his way toward her side and offered a reassuring smile. It wasn’t far to the water. The breeze freshened and the fog began to wither, but they were sure to slip away unnoticed at least until they checked her quarters.

  They hadn’t even made it to the water’s edge when drums beat to stations and the ship stirred to attention. “Find her!” It was Saint-Sauveur, his bark stabbing fear straight into her bones.

  The crew scrambled across the ship like rats on fire and Luísa’s hands and feet froze to the side of the ship. She couldn’t move.

  Daltry tried to tug her hands off the seam between boards, but she refused to budge.

  “We have to go,” he urged.

  “They’ll find us.”

  He snarled at her. “Bloody hell, woman. Maybe you like the idea of Saint-Sauveur’s bollocks in your face, but I’m not going to let him catch me—or you.” With that, he straddled her and grabbed her by the waist. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered.

  She hardly had time to obey before he yanked her off the hull.

  They crashed into the sea, their splash shrouded by the growing mayhem on board ship. Daltry clung to her, despite her panicked flails to reach the surface again.

  Down they went until she thought her lungs would burst. Blackness surged all about her and she prayed that God would take her quickly. She looked up and saw a dim glow of light. Lanterns? Was someone looking for them over the rail?

  Daltry halted their descent and now pushed her toward the surface at an angle. He seemed to realize her distress and swam harder, grabbing her by the top of her breeches while his other limbs chopped the water and drove them up.

  They popped up only a few yards from the Vengeance and Luísa gasped for air. For several seconds she gulped air, while Daltry held her afloat. She didn’t hear anything at first, her ears clogged with water. As she caught her breath, her hearing returned announcing the raucous furor on board ship. The ship was in chaos as men scoured every rat hole for signs of their prisoner.

  They had to get away while there was still time. Without any words between them, Daltry unfastened the belt at his waist and lashed it to each one of their wrists. “I’ll swim for both of us. You stay afloat. Agreed?”

  She nodded, bobbing in the water like a piece of driftwood.

  The tide was out, but the chop of the surf had grown. It was a terrible place to dock a cutter. She couldn’t imagine why Saint-Sauveur would make port here.

  The swim had sapped Luísa’s energy and she was exhausted by the time they reached the beach. Her clothes were heavy with saltwater and her feet slogged up on dry land only by the grace of Daltry’s help. They both collapsed on the beach. She rolled toward him and shivered.

  He took a moment to catch his breath then wrapped his arms around her. “I’m afraid we can’t tarry, little pirate. It won’t take Saint-Sauveur long to figure out you’re not on board. He’ll launch boats soon.”

  Luísa groaned. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Why did he attack the Coral, yet take only me? Surely the ship was worth more.”

  Daltry studied her for a moment. “Did he say nothing to you?”

  Luísa froze not wanting to recall her humiliation at Saint-Sauveur’s hands. “He—he—” Her voice grew stronger and more defiant. “He behaved like a typical Frenchman.”

&n
bsp; He grinned and unlashed the bonds from both their wrists. “Is that so? The French aren’t keen on leaving a woman’s virtue intact.”

  Face flaming, she pushed Daltry off her. “English pig! You’re no better than the French.”

  “Careful not to judge all of us by your Portuguese standards, kitten, or one could judge you by equal measure.” He toyed with the frill of her collar, while the rest of her shirt lay pasted to her body, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  He sat up and pulled her with him. “Time to go, little pirate. You’ve rested long enough.”

  They tramped through the jungle, guided only by a waxing gibbous moon. Luísa stumbled more and more until she tripped on some gnarled roots.

  “I can’t go any further. We have to stop.”

  Daltry helped her to her feet. “All right, luv. We’ll take a breather. I doubt Saint-Sauveur will send his crew into the jungle until daylight. There are devils here that hunt in the night and their favorite prey walks on two legs.” He pulled off his shirt and wrung it out, then threw it at her. “I’ll start a fire. You get your clothes off.”

  Luísa jumped up. “I will not!”

  He lunged at her in an instant. “Be quiet, you fool. Keep your voice down.”

  He startled her into silence. Wary of every snap and flutter, his eyes never stopped scanning the perimeter. There was danger here, the kind of peril that could be felt in the bones.

  Daltry gathered dry brush and worked a wood bow into the center of papery kindling. It seemed to take forever to take life, but a small ember finally emerged. He guarded it until it grew stronger, cradling it like a babe in a storm. Carefully, he fed it into a sheltered cove and lit the rest of the brushwood.

  The fire grew, lulling Luísa into a warm quiet. She was tired, hungry and more frightened than she cared to admit. At least her father wasn’t here to witness her helplessness. He had raised her better than this. What a disappointment she had proved.

  Daltry stood up and stripped to his skivvies. His boots and shirt were already off and drying near the fire. He grinned at her. “Your turn.”