by Lisa Olech
“Saint Michael,” she murmured. His resemblance to Raphael’s painting of the great Archangel was astounding. The golden man before her carried no great sweeping sword, but a fine polished pistol sat at the ready in his baldric against the white of his billowing shirt. He fairly glowed. Perhaps the Lord had sent her a savior after all.
The man leading the auction grabbed at her arm and dragged her to the edge of the platform. He lifted her hair before forcing her chin to one side, showing her off as if she were a prize horse. Next he’d be showing them her teeth. She jerked out of his grasp as he called for the bidding to begin.
Frantic, she sought out her savior, only to have her hopes shattered. He made the first bid. Her brain slowed after that. The scene before her moving in measured agonizing beats while a deafening buzz filled her mind.
Shock of the man tearing at her chemise jerked her back into the nightmare. Before her, a frenzy of bidding occurred until the final shout of “Sold!” reached deep into her belly.
Behind her Sister Bernadette choked out her name. Jocelyn turned in time to see her collapsed in a faint. Shouts and chaos erupted in the crowd. Before she could reach the good Sister, strong arms grabbed for her and pulled her into the fray.
Jocelyn screamed. Around her men fought one another with crushing swings of their fists. She ducked as she was dragged through the mêlée. When she stumbled, she was hoisted like a sack of wheat and unceremoniously tossed over someone’s shoulder.
With her hands still shackled, she pounded her fists upon their back and kicked at their crotch. After a satisfying “Ooof,” her abductor dropped her to her feet.
Saint Michael?
“Dammit, woman, I’m tryin…shit…this way.” He pushed her ahead of him, dodging people, animals, and carts, until he veered right, pulling her into a dark alley.
He was no Archangel. The scruff of a beard decorated his rigid jaw. A dark scowl drew his brows together. A ragged scar marred the top of one cheek.
When Jocelyn tried to scream, he clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed her against the rough boards of the building behind her. “Quiet,” he hissed then shot a glance over his shoulder.
She jerked her chin to one side and demanded he release her. “Je demande que vous me libérer, à la fois!”
In broken French he told her to relax. “I’m trying to save both our necks.” He continued to cover her body with his own. The strength and power of him surrounded her. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. The spice upon his skin. “I won’t hurt you. Play along.”
With another quick glance toward the main street, he lowered his head as if to kiss her. In the dim light of the narrow alley, he held her gaze. The rush of his breathing tickled across the bare skin of her shoulder. “If we’re lucky, they’ll run right by,” he whispered.
He reached down and lifted the side of her skirts to expose her leg clear to her thigh. She gasped and pushed against him. When she once again demanded he release her, he covered her lips with his fingertips. His pale gaze never leaving hers as he captured her knee, boldly raising it to rest upon his hip.
She would have screamed and fought him save for two things. At that moment, a loud, angry mob rushed past the end of the alley. And the sensation of his fingers at the back of her knee and the press of his heat against her body had robbed her of any sane thought.
Jocelyn followed his glance when he next looked back toward the street. A boy with thick ropes of dark hair stood near the entrance. She’d seen him standing with her rescuer at the auction. It was as if he guarded them. At the shake of his head, the man holding her shifted his head and raised her knee another inch. Anyone looking into the alley would assume they were random lovers tucked away from prying eyes.
She met his gaze once more, her breath racing. Surely he could feel her heart beating its way out of her chest.
He lowered his fingertips from her lips and released her leg. Jocelyn braced herself against him to keep from toppling over. The wall of his chest solid beneath her cheek.
“Are you well?” His French was terrible. She could only nod. “Good. Follow me.”
On the way past the young man, he grabbed his hat and shoved it down upon her head. He pulled the brim down forcing her to look at her feet. “Head down. Stay close.”
Jocelyn clutched at her torn chemise, and did as she was bid. Perhaps it was foolish to trust this complete stranger, but what choice did she have? Running to keep up, she found herself rushed along the hollow-sounding wood planks of the docks. Soon thereafter, he stopped to scoop her about the waist and swung her down onto the deck of a wide, three-masted sloop.
Her fair-haired savior then returned the hat to its rightful owner before catching her elbow and guiding her toward the bow of the ship. She had to run to keep pace with his long strides.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
He stopped on the spot.
“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath and made a slow turn.
Jocelyn followed. A woman strode toward them unlike any woman she had ever seen.
There was no mistaking her sex, but dressed as a man with her long legs encased in tight breeches and tall boots that rose higher than her knees, she made quite the impression. Long dark hair reached toward her waist. She wore a man’s waistcoat over a wide-sleeved shirt the color of cabernet. A wide belt crossed over one shoulder. Its delicate tooling in the leather was traced in silver and ended below her hip with the cage of her sword hilt.
A pirate. Jocelyn tipped her chin to sneak a stealthy glimpse above to confirm it. The black flag flew off the tip of the ship’s center mast.
When Jocelyn lowered her gaze, she met the woman’s scowl. In one hand, she held a pipe. A ribbon of smoke curling up from the bowl. Her other hand was planted at her waist.
“Tupper,” her companion muttered.
“Robbins.” She bit back in reply. “That doesn’t answer my question. Who is this and why is she aboard?”
“I don’t rightly know,” he replied glibly. Turning to Jocelyn, he began to ask her name until the woman called Tupper saved her from his butchered French and asked herself. Her French was flawless.
“Jocelyn Angelique Beauchamp,” she answered.
“Parlez vous anglais?” Tupper questioned.
Jocelyn nodded, “Oui.”
“You do?” The man she now knew as Robbins gaped at her.
“Yes, I speak English. And Latin, Spanish, and a bit of German.”
Tupper raised an eyebrow. “Impressive, and yet, I still don’t know why you’re here.”
Robbins blurted, “Slave auction.”
“You bought her?” Tupper’s hand moved to the hilt of her sword.
“Yes,” Jocelyn replied as Robbins insisted, “No.”
He raised his hands in surrender and rushed to explain. “I only bid to rescue her.” He lifted a shoulder. “Came a bit short in coin, but my intentions are honorable. I give ye me word.” Robbins checked the dock again. “It might be safer for all of us if she gets below, if ye gather my meaning.”
Tupper jerked her chin. “MacTavish can rid her of those shackles. Fetch him and bring him to the Captain’s cabin.”
Robbins hesitated a moment before acquiescing. His gaze swept Jocelyn as if he were only now realizing the full extent of his predicament. He gave a slow shake of his head and smirked. “Oui.”
Jocelyn followed the slender back of the woman down a dark galley way into the lower deck of the ship. She was ushered into a richly appointed room.
The entire back wall was a gentle curve of windows. Panes of leaded diamonds sparkled in the morning sun. Fine oak furnishings filled the room, a large carved desk, and trimmed sleeping nook. Chests of every description were piled neatly along the walls. There was even an oak cabinet built into the corner filled with beautiful leather-bound books.
Not that she’d been on many pirate ships in her lifetime--none actually, but thi
s room was nothing as she would have imagined. Before this moment, she would have told you pirates were all like that throng of vile men ogling her less than an hour ago. Filthy and crude, representing the lowest of all humankind. Barbarians.
“You look surprised.” Tupper appeared amused.
Jocelyn once more observed the woman before her. “I am, frankly. You are a pirate, no?”
Tupper relit her pipe. “Have you never seen a woman pirate?”
“Until yesterday, I’d never seen any kind of pirate. Male or female.”
“Well, look around.” Tupper swept an arm. “You’re in Port Royal. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a pirate here.”
“But you…”
Tupper notched her chin. “What about me?”
Jocelyn indicated the richness of the surroundings. “You are the captain?”
“No. The captain is my husband.”
“Ah, I see. So you do not participate.”
“Oh, I participate. I’ve been a full member of this crew for more than half a dozen years.” Tupper dropped into a chair and raised her knee to rest her boot heel on a rung of the chair. The pose was most unladylike. “It just so happens I also greatly enjoy bedding the captain.”
Jocelyn’s ears burned. She wasn’t embarrassed by the improper turn of the conversation, quite the opposite, she found it fascinating. Flustered at her puritanical assumptions, of course a woman could plunder and pillage as well as a man.
“Have you ever…” She stopped herself from asking such a rude question.
“Killed a man?” Tupper gave a short laugh. “Only the ones fool enough to stand in front of my pistol.” She took a pull on her pipe and stared through the cloud of blue smoke. “You’re very good at asking questions. Let’s see how you are at answering a few. How is it you’re here?”
The memory still seemed to come from deep within a nightmare. “Our ship was captured. The men slaughtered and the women taken.” Jocelyn clutched at her chemise. “To be sold.”
“Where were you headed?”
“Port Sainte Maria, then Ile de la Tortue.”
Tupper’s head cocked and she narrowed her eyes. “Tortuga?”
“My father is there. He sent for me. I’m to be…I was to be married.”
“Your father?” Tupper leaned forward. “You said your name was Beauchamp?”
“Oui.”
“Philippe Beauchamp? Admiral Philippe Beauchamp?”
Jocelyn’s mood lightened. Perhaps she was saved after all. “You know of him?”
“He wears a patch over his left eye.”
“Yes,” relief flooded her, “you do know him.”
“Aye, we know each other well. I am the one who gave him the patch.”
Chapter 3
Tupper met Ric in the galley way. “Do you have any idea who you’ve brought aboard?”
“She told you her name. Joceyl--”
“I heard her name,” Tupper snapped. “Philippe Beauchamp is her father.”
“Bâtard de la Mer Beauchamp?” Ric shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“Ask her yourself. Although you might not want to call him the Bastard of the Sea in front of her.” Tupper’s voice rose. She jabbed a finger back toward her cabin. “She needs to get off this ship.”
Ric threw his hands wide. “What should I do with her? Throw her back to those piranhas, or just overboard?”
“Beauchamp is determined to see everyone on this ship hung since we attacked him two years ago. She was on her way to him when her ship was taken. If he finds out we have her, he’ll stop at nothing. He’ll have the entire French navy scouring the seas for us.”
“So what do we do with her?”
“We?” Tupper laughed.
“Come on,” he pleaded. “Quinn’ll have my hide if he finds her here. There has to be something we can do.”
“Let me think…” Tupper ran a hand through her hair.
“Maybe we can keep her hidden somewhere.”
Tupper shook her head. “Do you want Gavin to have my hide?”
“What if we bring her to the eastern shore of the island? There’s bound to be a ship heading toward Port Saint Maria. We could handle the Scarlet Night ourselves. Make a quick run, be back before dark. Capt’n wouldn’t have to know.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “Of course he would have to know.” Tupper rubbed her chin. “Fin Willy is probably fixin’ to toast his good fortune for hours yet. Who’s still aboard?”
“You, me, Bump,” He jerked his chin toward the cabin door. “MacTavish, Neo. I think I saw White and Summer. Finch has a comely wife waiting in port, so he’s off. Hornbach and Dowd be loading the galley. Could be a few more below.”
“The Scarlet is easily run with a handful…”
Robbins brightened. This would go a hell of a lot easier if the deed was done before he had to face Captain Quinn. He rushed to convince Tupper. “We can use the east winds, set all the cloth. I bet we could be back by four bells.”
She thought for a moment before glaring at him. “Fine. Neo’s still nursing the shoulder they pulled a lead shot from last week. I’ll send him to The Barnacle. Tell Gavin we be borrowing his ship.”
Relief washed over him. “You’re the best there be, Tupper.”
“Don’t be buttering up the goose already in the pan.” She pointed a finger into his face. “You owe me.”
“Anything.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Name it.”
“Don’t think I won’t.” Tupper shook her head and waved her finger. “An’ keep all your grinnin’ to yourself, ya fool. It may work on those empty headed females you like to tumble, but it doesn’t work on me.” She left him to head deck side.
Malcolm MacTavish, the ship’s Master Gunner, exited the Captain’s quarters and tossed Ric the empty shackles. “Lass not one of your usual trollops.”
“She’s no trollop, and she sure as hell ain’t mine.”
“So ye say,” MacTavish grumbled as he moved past. The bearded ox of a Scotsman smelled like sulfur and gun oil and looked like someone’d used him to swab a cannon. His kilt was more black powder than red tartan these days.
Ric knocked on the door before moving back into the Captain’s quarters. Jocelyn sat on the side of the bed still holding together the edges of her torn chemise.
No, she wasn’t his. Never would be either. But she sure as hell was one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen. He could still smell the sunshine wound into the dark curls of her hair. Memories washed over him of hiding in that alley, pressed against her all close and tight. Bold as new brass touching her like he did. Running his fingers down the girl’s thigh to catch the tender back of her knee. Her skin was like nothing he’d ever laid a hand upon. Soft as down. Smooth as a king’s satins.
Had there not been a bloodthirsty hoard after them he’d have loved to have dipped his head another inch and had a little taste of her sweet mouth. It might have been worth the slap across his cheek.
But he’d missed his chance.
She was Beauchamp’s daughter. If he touched her, he was a dead man. Now he’d never know the feel of her lips. He expected that missed opportunity to haunt him for many nights to come. Fair price, considering he was a damn fool.
“Are you well?” he asked when she remained quiet.
She nodded, blinking up at him.
“We’re heading off to find another ship to bring you to your father.”
“But he’s your enemy,” she argued. “You’re pirates. Aren’t you going to hold me for ransom?”
Why did she sound disappointed? “We don't ransom. We're more of a snatch and grab operation.”
Jocelyn pulled her chemise tighter and studied her lap. "You've fought my father before."
“Aye, we've crossed swords a time or two.” Ric poured her a finger of brandy from the bottle on Captain Quinn’s desk, but when he offered the glass to her, she r
efused it. “He’s a worthy opponent.”
“Father enjoys a good fight. Pirates or daughters. It’s fair to say he has little tolerance for either. Although, crossing pens and not swords would be more fitting in my case.”
Ric debated returning the unwanted brandy to the bottle, but it’d be a sin putting liquor this fine back once it’d been poured. He solved the problem in a single swallow.
Jocelyn continued. “His last visit to the abbey may not have come to swordplay, but it may as well have. His demand to join him now was hardly a request. It was an order. And not one to defy.”
Ric choked. “Did you say abbey?”
She nodded. “I've been there since the age of three. My mother passed away suddenly from a fever, and Father couldn't raise me alone. At Sainte-Genevieve we’re allowed only four visits a year, but he’s always fighting a battle somewhere half a world away. I rarely saw him. In fact, I would argue in the last few years you've probably crossed his path far more than I.”
The girl was raised in an abbey?
If being Beauchamp’s daughter was not enough to keep his grimy hands off her, this would have been. Innocent with a capital “I.” Straight from a virgin vault. Tupper was right, Jocelyn Beauchamp needed to get off this ship.
He contemplated another drink, but he was in enough trouble without adding stealing more of the Capt’n’s brandy to the list. “I’m sure he only wanted to keep you safe.”
She met his gaze. “You and he seem to agree on that point.”
Ric laughed, “I doubt he would see it that way.”
“No, he would not.” She lifted one delicate shoulder. “And yet, he should be in your debt.” She graced him with a small smile sending a warm shaft clear through his chest. “I know I am.”
He needed to get out of this cabin. “You may want to hold off before thanking me. I still need to get you out of port.”
“I trust you.” She dipped her chin and peered up at him.
Ric laughed again to cover his sudden unease. She trusted him? Where was her fear? This innocent girl was hardly acting like he’d expect. “Never trust a pirate.” He unwound the sash about his waist and pulled his shirt over his head. Jocelyn’s eyes went round as portholes. At last, a show of fear. He tossed his shirt to her. “Cover yourself. Stay below until we are well away from the docks. Then it will be safe to come up.”
