The Valkyrie Series: The First Fleet - (Books 1-3) Look Sharpe!, Ill Wind & Dead Reckoning: Caribbean Pirate Adventure

by Karen Perkins

  “You’re mine, wife, and so is that whore. I can and will do with both of you as I wish. Do not anger me, or I will give you to worse than Hornigold.” I stared at him, too revolted to react. I believed him.

  He straddled me and pushed up my shift. As usual, I neither helped nor hindered. He was right: I was his, and completely powerless.

  He tried to push inside me and I bit my lip in anticipation of pain, but there was none. I looked at him in surprise—there was nothing there.

  His eyes met mine and he slapped me. “Teef—bitch,” he said. He hit me again, and now I could start to feel something down there. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back. I cried out in pain and was aware my throat was exposed and vulnerable. He recognized my fear and grew bigger.

  He bent his mouth to my throat and I bit my lip, terrified at what he would do. He kissed my skin, gently, and laughed at my cry of surprise. I’d expected a bite and he knew it. He was playing with me.

  Tears ran down my face and I stifled a sob. I tried to push him away, but my efforts had no effect.

  “Stop it,” he said, pulling my hair again, and I did, scared he would snap my neck.

  I remembered that night aboard Freyja with him and shut my eyes. I could not take my body away from this, but my mind didn’t have to stay.

  I pictured my beach. It was gloomy, with storm clouds overhead and rain poured down.

  Something smashed into my face. “Open your eyes!” I saw my husband’s face, red with anger, but I didn’t react. I stared past him, at the canopy, and returned to the beach.

  My nightgown was already saturated from the rain and I ran straight into the sea, the surf battering me. I was knocked down, the wave spinning the world about me, but I found my feet and pressed on. The next wave hit me and I staggered back and lost my footing, but this time managed to stay on the surface. I swam forward, deeper and deeper, the storm surge buffeting my body.

  Lightning lit the sea around me and I realized I could no longer see the shore. I didn’t care. I was safe out here in the waves. I was not safe on land.

  I rode the next wave, and the next, then a particularly large one broke early—it felt like stone hitting me, not water. I spluttered my way back to the surface and looked for the next one. It wasn’t there.

  The waves rocked me now, rather than threatened. The sun was coming out, the sea calming. The storm was abating.

  I rolled onto my back and floated on the surface, allowing the sea to rock me to sleep. I knew I wouldn’t drown, not now. I was alone here. I was safe. I had survived.

  Chapter 30

  I woke on sand. I blinked my eyes open slowly—the sunlight hurt them and they felt wrong. I looked around and smiled, relieved. I was on my beach. I’d been washed up on my beach. I was safe. I sat up and cried out in pain. My whole body hurt. It had been quite a storm and the waves had taken their toll on me.

  I blinked my eyes open. Weak dawn light showed me the familiar white canopy over my bed. I clenched my fist and lifted it to within my sightline. It held fabric, not sand. I frowned in confusion, then remembered the night before. I was not on my beach; that had been a dream. I was in my bed—my marital bed.

  I gathered my courage and turned my head to the side. Erik wasn’t there; he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief which ended in a sob. He wasn’t here to enjoy my distress so I surrendered to it, scarcely able to breathe through the violence of my tears.

  When they were finally spent, I jumped and cried out in surprise. Klara stood there with a breakfast tray. We stared at each other, taking in the other’s bruises, shamefully aware of our own.

  “I didn’t think you would want to go to the dining room this morning,” she said and placed the tray on the bed.

  I shook my head, or tried to, relieved and thankful, but not yet trusting myself to speak.

  I pushed myself up to a sitting position—very carefully—and winced as I leant back against the headboard. Klara glanced at me in concern, but I ignored her and looked at the tray.

  Fruit—pawpaw and carambola—both ripe, both easy to eat. Bread (untoasted) and preserves: the usual jar of mammee apple that I enjoyed, and another, larger jar, that I did not recognize.

  I picked up the cup and sipped tea. It was definitely more palatable with three teaspoons of sugar. I put the cup down and ate some pawpaw. Perfect—soft enough that I didn’t have to chew; tasty enough to stimulate my appetite; its juice mild enough not to sting the cut on my lip.

  I lifted the lid of the strange jar and looked at Klara. I recognized the smell; it was full of the salve we used to ease the bruises left by my stays. Tears started to fall again, and Klara sat on the bed and put her arm around my shoulders. I leaned against her.

  “We’re going to need a lot of this stuff,” I said through my tears.

  “I know. I’ve told Belinda, she has an army of slaves out in the jungle picking what she needs whenever they have a chance.” She squeezed my shoulder, but neither of us managed to laugh.

  I pulled myself together and sat up. I looked at her.

  “What are we going to do?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He may just be mourning his father. He may return to being the Erik he was before Mijnheer Jan died.”

  “Klara, the Erik he was before Jan died, killed his father! This is Erik. This is the real Erik. God knows what he’s capable of without Jan here to temper him.”

  Tears rolled down her face and she sobbed. “What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

  I held her. “I don’t know, Klara, I don’t know.”

  I stared at the wall. We were trapped here, with a monster. We had to find a way out—if we didn’t find a way, and find it soon, he would kill us both long before our times. I thought back to my beach—pictured the sand and the waves. I had to find a way to the sea. We’d be safe there. Life had changed again; this time I would find a way to escape my fate.

  * * * * *

  Dead Reckoning

  Prologue

  LEO

  28th January 1671

  Panama City

  Papá was dead. He’d been deployed with General González to stop Henry Morgan and his buccaneers from approaching and attacking Panama City. He’d failed, and two thousand bloodthirsty Englanders had arrived. We did not have enough soldiers left to stop them.

  I stood in the fringes of the jungle, hidden by the trees, and watched a horde of half-starved filthy pirates swarm into my city, intent on destroying everything they could see, until my neighbors’ screams and the smell of their burning homes made it impossible for me to do nothing.

  “I’ve got to go back,” I told my friend, Magdalena, then coughed from the smoke. “Mamá’s alone in the house and Papá’s gone. I’m the head of the family now, I’ve got to go and get her.” I was trying hard to stay calm and not panic Magdalena.

  “Let me come with you, Leo, please. Don’t leave me on my own,” Magdalena cried.

  “No, go back to the camp and stand guard. We have food and water; someone needs to stay with it. Make sure no one finds it. You’ll be fine, I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

  Two years younger than me at ten, Magdalena nodded solemnly, and I knew she wouldn’t let anyone near our stores. She was a deadly shot with her sling, able to fell a fast-moving lizard with a stone flung from the leather straps. She’d never fired a missile at a man before, but I didn’t think she would hesitate.

  “I won’t be long,” I reassured her, and crept out of the undergrowth. Barefoot and wearing only breeches and a filthy shirt, I could easily pass as a ship’s boy. The blue eyes that normally made me stand out would help me blend in with the marauders.

  I went as quickly as I could to the house where I knew Mamá waited, too stubborn to flee into the jungle and too frightened of the sea to run to the coast. I was too late; the buccaneers had already found her. I wanted to run, afraid of what I might see, but peered through the window anyway. I gasped in shock. Three men surround
ed Mamá and threatened her with blade and pistol, demanding gold.

  “I don’t have any,” Mamá cried in English. “I don’t have any gold!”

  “Blake, Hornigold, search the house,” the older one ordered. The other two emptied and tipped over the furniture, destroying everything we owned.

  “Look at the house,” Mamá gasped. “My husband’s a soldier, we’re not rich, we don’t have gold.”

  “Captain Tarr.” The youngest one, Hornigold, came back into the room with a plateful of cold beef. The captain grabbed it and stuffed meat into his mouth until it was so full he could hardly chew.

  “Nothing.” The other one, Blake, came back in and his face lit up at the sight of the food. “There’s nothing here at all.” He crossed the room and grabbed a handful of beef, cramming it into his mouth as his captain had done.

  I looked back at Mamá, forgotten in the corner, and wondered how I could get her out past these men. She saw me and tried to tell me to run. Tarr heard her “Vamos” and turned to her. I wish I had run, but I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t work. I couldn’t turn my head. I couldn’t shut my eyes. I felt as if my body were not my own; a part of me—the important part—broke.

  “Hold her,” Tarr ordered and his men each grabbed one of Mamá’s arms, pinning her to the floor, despite her kicking legs. I still couldn’t look away, even when her eyes met mine through the window and I saw how terrified she was. My own terror exploded inside me, shredding my soul, when I saw that look on her face.

  Mamá kicked harder and writhed on the floor to free her arms. She couldn’t do it. Tarr watched her and laughed as he untied his breeches and let them fall. He fell to his knees, forcing Mamá’s apart. She kept kicking, but her blows did no damage.

  “Lie still, you dirty Spanish whore,” Tarr growled and he thrust into her.

  Mamá screamed, her noise covering my own cries. My heart burst into flame, the fire consuming my whole body, but I could do nothing to stop them. I was an unarmed boy. I could only watch, and hate—hate them, and hate myself for my inaction. My mind wouldn’t work properly, all I could think was, she’s not Spanish, you ignorant bastard, she’s English, your countrywoman. It’s Papá who’s Spanish.

  I kept watching. Tarr cried out and moved away from Mamá. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was over.

  No, it was not. Tarr took Blake’s place, holding Mamá down, but her struggles were growing weaker. Blake’s breeches fell and he moved between Mamá’s legs. If anything, he was even more enthusiastic than Tarr and cried out with every thrust. Mamá’s screams reduced to sobs. It was all she was capable of now. She did not look at me again.

  When Blake changed places with Hornigold, I noticed the floor around Mamá’s legs was red with blood. It did not put Hornigold off. Between them they had torn her apart like animals with a piece of meat.

  I felt cold inside. The fire had gone out. I still couldn’t tear my eyes away. I noticed every detail about the men. Every detail of Mamá’s shame. I would repay it all. I would make them suffer for this.

  When Hornigold finished, the other two let go of Mamá and they laughed down at her. Mamá curled into a ball. I could only imagine how much pain she must have been in to prevent her covering herself properly or moving away.

  I put my hands to my face to cover my eyes, then looked at them in surprise. They were wet. I was crying and hadn’t realized. I looked through the window again just as Tarr grabbed Mamá by the hair.

  “Finish it,” he commanded, then hawked and spat down at her huddled form on the floor.

  “Yeah, finish her, finish her.” Hornigold was almost dancing with laughter.

  Blake stepped forward, dagger drawn, and slashed it across Mamá’s throat. I cried out despite myself and stared at the three faces turned toward me, carving their features into my memory. I swore that I would avenge this. If it took the rest of my life, I would kill those three men. Then I ran; back to the jungle and Magdalena.

  Chapter 1

  GABRIELLA

  31st March 1686

  Brisingamen, Sayba

  I stretched my hand out to the door, then stopped. I did not want to go in there. I did not want to face the evening that lay behind that carved piece of wood.

  “Klara.” I could hear Erik’s Dutch accent even through the timber. “What’s keeping my wife? Leave that there and fetch her. She’s neglecting our guests and I won’t have it!”

  I took a deep breath and reached for the door again, forced the handle down, and stepped into the dining room.

  “Finally! What kept you?” Erik said in greeting. “You have the right idea, gentlemen,” he addressed the room. “A life at sea—no women to contend with.” He laughed. “Sit down, Gabriella.”

  I walked the length of the room to the empty chair at the foot of the table and tried to ignore the laughter of the dozen men seated at Erik’s pleasure. His buccaneers—the men who brought my husband, and his father before him, the riches to build and furnish this house. Pirates, even if they preferred to avoid that title, instead calling themselves privateers, buccaneers or Brethren of the Coast.

  I had lived on the island of Sayba, in the northern Caribbees, with Erik van Ecken for three years. Surrounded by jungle and sugarcane, Brisingamen was a beautiful house: built of brick, it had four stories at its highest and was painted gold. The long lower floor had a decorative and comfortable veranda with a series of seven arches, and the center of the next was topped directly by a steep roof to the width of the middle three arches. Either side of the middle section were two third and fourth floors with shuttered windows and topped by gables built in the Dutch taste of carved pediments with curves and swirls added to the basic flat triangle. Most women would be envious, but they didn’t know Erik.

  I took my seat and glanced up at Klara as she spread a napkin on my lap and filled my glass. We both knew well how these evenings ended. At least I’d only have my husband to contend with; she had no idea which of the loud, coarse, stinking men at this table Erik would decide to reward with her favors. Blake, Hornigold and Sharpe were the main contenders, but my husband had a warped sense of humor and all the men here were hopeful.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Erik slammed his fist onto the table, silencing the room. I looked up at him in alarm; he was drunk early. That did not bode well. “Three years, and you still haven’t learned to look at me when I talk to you! Do you have this trouble with your crews, Blake? No, ’course you don’t. Maybe I should send her to sea and let you whip some obedience into her.”

  His favorite subject was our marriage and my failings.

  “God bless my dear father, he had a good head for ships and business, none at all for women. Saddling me with this useless barren English whore.” He looked around the table to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “He went to the Massachusetts Bay Colony to sort out the customs official there who was getting greedy, and came back with his daughter for my wife. Her own family didn’t want her, which should have been Vader’s first clue. She can’t run the house properly and lets the slaves get away with anything, especially this one.” He slapped Klara’s backside as she placed a joint of beef on the table. “I’m sure she thinks they’re friends. My wife needs to learn her place. It’s a pity the cage is full, although it would be a shame to waste her like that.”

  I looked up sharply. The cage was barely big enough to hold a grown man, and once Erik put someone in it, they did not come out alive. The local wildlife wasn’t fussy about its food being dead before it dined, and any victim was left there until his bones were picked clean.

  “Ahh, thought that would get your attention. I know everything that happens on this island, you forgot that when you let that . . . that filthy swine touch you, didn’t you, Gabriella?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? What am I talking about? I saw you! You let him touch you!”

  Then I realized and my heart plummeted. I looked at Klara; she
’d frozen in place.

  “What? Do you mean Wilbert? I tripped, he saved my fall! What have you done to him?” Wilbert was one of Erik’s slaves.

  “You know exactly what I’ve done to him. I’m not having one of those animals touch my wife! How did he look, Blake?”

  The men would have passed the cage on the approach to the house.

  “Like he’s remembered who’s the captain here.” Blake laughed.

  “Erik, please.” I knew begging wouldn’t sway him, but I had to try. “Please let him out, he only tried to help me, he doesn’t deserve this.”

  Erik slammed his fist into the table again. “I decide who deserves what, and don’t you forget it, Gabriella. Maybe this’ll teach you not to be so friendly. Now eat your dinner!”

  I looked at my plate. I knew more words would anger him further, but I could feel Klara’s eyes on me. I knew she loved Wilbert. I couldn’t look at her. I could do nothing for him. I couldn’t even try. I’d only make things worse. I picked up my knife and fork and cut a small piece of meat. I hoped it would choke me.

  “So, Blake, have you dealt with our Spanish problem yet?” Erik changed the subject and I risked a look at Klara now that I no longer had my husband’s attention. Her face showed no expression and she did not return my glance.

  “He’s not been seen since the fight with Hornigold. He’s hiding somewhere, but we’ll find him. We have a lot of friends in these waters, we’ll find him.”

  “You’d better. I lost a good man in Tarr; you need to prove to me you can fill his boots, Blake. I have to say I have my doubts.

  “And you can stop sniggering, Hornigold. I have no idea why Blake has so much confidence in you, if I had my way you’d be Freyja’s cook, not her captain. In fact, you can concentrate on finding the Spaniard, you can prove yourself and leave Blake to carry on our business interests—I need more ships, and I need them quickly. My slave sheds are full to bursting, I need to transport them to the Caribbee slave marts before too many die on me. Bringing them across from Africa isn’t cheap, you know!”