by Louise Allen
They were casting off now, the strange grey sails were lowered, shouted orders floated up from below decks and there was the rumble of gun carriages. ‘There is no need to fire on her, for God’s sake.’ Chance seized the Count’s arm. ‘Outrun her, hail her. I will go aboard and explain to the captain that Alessa has been taken against her will—that is all that is required.’
‘It is all you require.’ The Count squinted up at the set of the sails as the Ghost slid out of the inlet. ‘I want that ship, and all the ladies on it.’
‘Have you got a death wish?’ Chance demanded, dodging to keep beside Zagrede as he strode through the mass of seamen to look at the rigging. ‘Those ladies are the kin of a senior British diplomat, they are under the protection of the Lord High Commissioner. When news of this gets out there will be hell to pay. How do you expect to continue your business in British-controlled ports after this?’
The Count dropped his eyes from the sails, apparently satisfied with what he could see. ‘Stop this display of outrage,’he said genially, dropping one hand on to Chance’s shoulder. Chance shrugged it off. ‘My—what is the word?—legitimate trade is of little consequence to my wealth, and is of less now the British are filling the sea with their merchant ships. My freebooting brings in the money, and that improves with the number of your ships—they are rich pickings, my friend. And so many of them!
‘But now I have a fight on my hands. This Lord Blackstone in Venice is out to sweep pirates off the surface of the Ionian Sea. My agents tell me that a naval cutter is due into Corfu in days, with orders that would make life very difficult indeed for me and my compatriots. Already the British are stirring; all this fuss at the Residency is but the beginning. Time to cut my losses and leave, I think.’
‘They know who you are?’
‘Not yet. They will when that cutter gets here.’ A man appeared with a tray with bread and wine and olives and set it down on a hatch cover. ‘Here, eat and stop trying to think of ways a single man armed with a sword and two pistols can take this ship.’
Chance regarded his infuriating captor. He was quite correct—ideas, all of them wildly impractical, had been rushing through his brain. But so far he was on deck, not restrained and having a civil conversation; better to keep it that way than for any of the alternatives he could imagine. He tore off some bread, dipped it in the olive oil and chewed.
‘What do you want with the women?’ He had no fear for himself, but the thought of Alessa in the power of this crew made his blood run cold.
‘Lady Blackstone and her pretty daughter? Now, they are quite safe with me, for they are valuable hostages. I shall have to put them somewhere so that I do not have to listen to that woman’s sharp tongue, but they will be very comfortable.’
‘And if the British do not do what you expect? If Lord Blackstone and Sir Thomas do their duty, at whatever the cost to the women?’
‘Then I move the ladies further inland and all communication from them ceases. I am not a murderer of innocent women, Benedict, but neither do I surrender. They will come in handy eventually.’
‘And Alessa?’He had to force himself not to run his tongue around his dry lips.
‘Oh, I think I will marry her.’ Chance was on his feet, the wine bottle in his hand before two seamen had him by the arms. ‘Marry, I said, not rape.’ The Count said something to the men and they let go, stepping back warily. ‘She thinks you only want her as a mistress, my trusting friend.’ He grinned. ‘You really should not believe everything another man tells you, not when a lovely woman is involved. And who knows what that man is saying to the lady? She knows that her background is smudged enough for things to be difficult for her in England. When she comes to believe that marrying me will make life easier for her aunt and cousin, she will agree.’
‘Blackmail her into it? And you do not call that rape?’ Chance felt his fingers cramping around the bottle and made himself relax. He poured wine and set the bottle down.
‘I call it seduction, my friend, and I will be most ashamed of myself if the lady does not thoroughly enjoy it.’ He twitched the glass out of Chance’s hand and raised it in a mocking toast before draining it. ‘And it is no good looking at me with murder in your eyes, my dear Benedict: you would be dead before you could reach me.’
‘As I doubtless will be by the end of this voyage.’
‘But why should you think that? I have no wish to harm you—I like you. You will find yourself dropped off on some remote island when it is no longer convenient to carry you with us. If you try anything foolish, I will have you locked in your cabin. If it is very foolish, in chains. You understand?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Chance stretched his lips into a parody of the Count’s insouciant smile. ‘I understand.’
He filled the other glass and drank, his eyes roaming over what he could see. How many men? Impossible to tell at the moment, when many were below and he could not yet differentiate between one moustachioed face and another. He studied the rigging and the set of the sails. Could I sail her? Yes, with a skeleton crew who knew what they were doing.
Weapons. I need something to give me an edge. His sword and pistols were in the cabin where he had left them. ‘I need my hat,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Is there a problem with my going below decks?’
‘None in the world, dear friend. But they have gone, you know. Such a nice pair of pistols.’
‘Indeed they are,’ Chance said civilly, trying not to grind his teeth, ‘but I still require a hat.’
He went down to the cabin, unmolested by any of the crew he passed on the way. The pistols had indeed gone—so had the sword, his penknife and his razors. Everything else was neatly stowed.
Chance shut the door quietly, stood in the middle of the cabin and allowed himself the luxury of losing his temper for a solid minute of vicious swearing. Then he sat down at the writing ledge and tried to think logically and calmly. And failed.
All he could do was to try to fight the cold panic that seemed to paralyse his guts and his brain whenever he thought about Alessa. Now she would be frantic about the children; that was bad enough. Soon she would find herself in the clutches of a crew of eastern Mediterranean pirates, and in the bed of Voltar Zagrede.
Would he take her by force? Chance found the quill he had unconsciously picked up broken in two. No, probably not. If nothing else, the Count would think the less of himself if his vaunted powers of seduction failed him. But would she give in to him? Possibly, if she thought she must do so to help her relatives, or if she thought she had no future in England, or Corfu, after being so thoroughly compromised. And she liked the man. Damn it, so did he. He just wanted him at the end of a rifle barrel, with the trigger under his own finger.
To be fair, the Count would probably send for the children if she asked him to, and he would look after them all well. Demetri would love learning to be a pirate, the little wretch.
But the lad was never going to get the opportunity to try it, not if he had anything to do with it. Chance set out to explore and find out just what the limits on his freedom were.
Almost complete, as it turned out. He was blocked only twice—once in front of what he guessed must be the armoury and magazine and once at the door to Zagrede’s own cabin. He returned on deck to find the Count standing besides the helmsman, studying a chart that had been weighted down on the nearest hatch cover.
‘Good ship, eh?’ He glanced up as Chance approached. ‘You have a look round?’
‘Yes, thank you. How am I going to shave myself?’
‘My man will do it. He has a steady hand, so long as you do not distract him.’
Suddenly curious about something that had been niggling at the back of his mind, Chance demanded, ‘Where did you learn your English?’
‘Harrow,’ the Count responded with a flash of amusement. ‘Somehow they failed to make me a complete English gentleman.’
Harrow! This was rapidly becoming like a bad dream. Chance looked down at the chart, th
en up at the coastline. Corfu had vanished into the haze, but the bulk of Albania still loomed on the starboard bow.
‘When?’ he asked abruptly.
The Count glanced up, not making the error of thinking that Chance was referring to the promised shave. ‘Tomorrow, when we are into the Adriatic. Soon we will be at the heel of Italy. I would like to be beyond it and have a little more sea room before I strike.’
‘You hunt alone?’ Chance looked up at the heights.
‘Yes, this time. You are right to look up; if I lead a wolf pack, then we use fires to signal where the quarry is.’ He released the weight that held the chart and it rolled up, the sudden noise rasping Chance’s raw nerves. ‘Relax, my friend, enjoy the peace. Tomorrow we fight.’
‘How could you do such a wicked thing?’ Alessa faced her aunt across the cabin. ‘The children will be terrified.’
‘Nonsense. Peasant children have no sensibility; besides, they have that Street woman to look after them.’ Her aunt was looking at her as though Alessa was being utterly unreasonable. She really does not understand, Alessa thought, shocked into seeing the truth. It does not fit her image of how things should be, of how she feels, so she fails to see the pain she is causing.
‘When we get to England I will tell everyone what you did,’ she threatened. That should do it, surely. Scandal was what she most feared.
‘What have I done? Removed you from poverty? Reunited you with your family? People will understand if you are vapourish. They will sympathise when I tell them that, all alone, you comforted yourself by doing good works with orphans and became hysterical when you had to be parted from them.’ She smiled serenely. ‘If you do not have the brats clinging to your petticoats, then I am sure one nasty little rumour will not circulate.’
‘People will believe me,’ Alessa said doggedly.
‘Alexandra, listen to me. Two years ago the daughter of Lord Portington had an affair with his valet and got herself with child. He put her in an asylum. Society thinks he did the correct thing. It will be very distressing to have to take such drastic action, but people will applaud my efforts to at least ensure you are looked after in England, you poor, distracted child.
‘And if you stop this nonsense…why, then you can live a good life, as a respectable, conformable lady. It is your choice.’ She shut the door softly behind her, leaving Alessa staring at the panels, her blood chilled in her veins.
Chapter Nineteen
It was mid-day before Zagrede allowed the Ghost to begin to overhaul the Plymouth Sound. Chance shaded his eyes as the merchantman, still a distant shape, began to lose way.
‘They are slowing down.’
‘Perhaps the damage that was mended so quickly was not mended very well and someone on board knows how to weaken it again,’ the Count said airily. ‘We have them soon. And you, my friend—will you give me your word you will do nothing to intervene?’
‘Like hell I will.’ She is over there, so close.
‘Then I will have you tied up and locked in your cabin,’ said the Count equably.
Chance wrestled with the choices. ‘I will give you my parole until you capture the other ship,’ he said eventually. ‘Or, if you do not succeed, until dusk tonight.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you can try to lock me in my cabin.’ He was answered by a crack of laughter as the Count strode off.
‘There is another ship behind us,’ Frances called. She was leaning on the rail, holding on to the brim of her wide sun hat. The young lieutenant, with whom she had been flirting mildly, stared back at the sleek shape drawing up on the starboard side. On deck the men who were working on the splintered spar glanced up, then went back to their task.
Alessa came over to join them, grateful for the distraction from her churning thoughts. ‘What is it?’
‘A coastal vessel of some sort, ma’am. Not British. A trader, I have no doubt, curious for a look at us. If we were not hampered by that dashed spar splintering, we would soon show him a clean pair of heels.’
‘How odd those grey sails are,’ Frances commented. ‘You can hardly see them against the sea. She shivered. ‘Like a ghost ship, so quiet and fast.’
The young man smiled, patronisingly. ‘There are all sorts out here, ma’am, no need to be alarmed.’
‘Is there not? There is something so…’ Alessa stared as the other ship altered course, slicing though the water between them. With a thud that carried across the narrowing gap, the gun ports fell open and the black muzzles ran out.
‘Hell, pirates!’ The lieutenant seized them both by the arm, dragging them urgently towards the companionway. ‘Get below, stay there.’
The merchantman was in uproar, orders being shouted, the wheel spinning, the rumble of guns being run out. Alessa pushed Frances unceremoniously down the companionway and pulled the two slanting hatch doors almost closed. Through the small gap that remained she could just see the deck. Below there was screaming, the sound of someone having hysterics and the slam of doors. Keys turned. She would stay out here, come what may, not huddle in a tiny cabin like a rat in a trap.
The chaos on deck was settling down to something more purposeful now, and Alessa felt her confidence returning. The damaged spar was cleared out of the way, hands ran to run up more sail, a gun was trundled across the deck and men were loading it in a disciplined manner.
The roar of the cannon when it came was so sudden that Alessa almost lost her footing and tumbled back. There was a strange screeching sound, cracking, and the entire mainsail began to collapse on to the deck.
‘Chain shot!’ she heard an officer shout. ‘They got the top mast, cut this free.’ But the ship was wallowing now, sails flapping, and with a grinding crunch their attacker was alongside.
Alessa slammed the door shut and swung down the bar. Much good that will do, she thought grimly. I need a weapon.
And then the recollection of sitting on the chair looking at her father’s pistol and pushing it into the leather satchel came to her. Where is it? She scrambled down the companionway and ran to her cabin, wrenched open the door and began to dig through the pile of luggage for which, up to now, she had spared only a cursory thought. There, at the bottom, was the satchel, and in it the reassuring bulk of the box containing the pistol.
She loaded it slowly, forcing herself to take care, ignoring the racket on deck overhead and the shrieks from the cabins further along. The last thing she needed now was a misfire.
When the pistol was loaded Alessa stood for a moment, just looking at it. Could she fire it? She knew she was a good shot against a static target. But could she fire on a man? Yes, she told herself firmly. Yes, if it was that or rape. Yes, if by shooting from a hiding place she could aid the ship’s defenders.
No one had tried to come down below yet. The action was all still on deck. Cautiously Alessa eased her way up the companionway and reached the barred door just as everything went silent. Her heart was thudding, her mouth dry, as she took hold of the bar and began to lift it up. The quiet was terrifying, far worse than the shooting and shouts had been. She lifted the bar with hands that shook, and cracked open the door.
Ranged before her, their backs to her, was the boarding party, their clothes an exotic mixture of east and west. They were barefoot, their baggy trousers and wide sashes splashing ragged colour against the white-scrubbed deck and the heaped wreckage. Knives and curved swords were grasped by some, others held long-barrelled guns. Through the gaps between them she could see the ship’s crew, disarmed and scowling.
The man in the centre was talking, the wind whipping his words away from her, towards the captives. For a moment she thought she recognised his voice, then realised it must be the accent; these would be Albanian pirates—no wonder she had mistaken the man for the Count of Kurateni.
Alessa eased back the doors and stepped over the sill on to the deck—if she could surprise them, hold their leader for even a minute or two, the crew might be able to rush them.
&
nbsp; ‘Stand still! I have a gun on your leader’s back! Put down your weapons or I will fire.’
No one moved. The boarders, with a discipline she had not expected, faced forward still, their weapons steady. The broad shoulders in front of her moved: she might have mistaken it for a laugh under other circumstances. Then the man turned round.
‘My dear Alessa, I am glad to see you unharmed.’
‘Count!’ The muzzle of the pistol drooped and she jerked it back to point squarely at his chest. ‘Stop this at once, or I will shoot.’
‘But, no, of course you would not! Shoot me in cold blood? I do not believe it, my sweet.’ It was the same mocking, charming, dangerous man as before, only now she had not the slightest inclination to flirt with him.
Alessa lifted her other hand to steady her aim. ‘I am a good shot: I can hardly miss you at this range.’ Indeed, she was so close she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest under the flamboyantly draped shirt.
‘Shoot a friend?’
‘Shoot a pirate, you mean. I will count to five. One…two…’
The Count reached out a hand and drew a man forward, a tall man who had been concealed behind the wall of Zagrede’s crew.
‘Three…Chance!’ Zagrede moved like a snake. As the pistol jerked in her hand with the shock he was on her, twisting her wrist, sending the weapon flying across the deck.
‘My apologies, my dear, but if you will play rough games—’ His fist caught her neatly on the point of her chin, the world spun.
Stars, you really do see stars…Chance…The deck came up and met her and everything went dark.
Chance doubled his fist and lunged for Zagrede, only to find himself grappled hard from behind. He bucked, stamped and kicked, but three men were too much, even in his present killing rage.
‘You bastard…’
