A Pirate's Agony (Legends of the Soaring Phoenix Book 3)

by M. L. Guida

  But first things first. What she’d endured was nothing compared to what happened to Amadi. ’Twas her fault.

  He was a sailor. Maybe his ship was nearby. She’d be willing to be his indentured servant as long as he took her away from the Sorcière de Mer.

  An image of kissing him or having him exploring her naked body flashed into her mind. Her cheeks burned, and her throat ran dry. She squirmed and tensed as pain seized her.

  Forget it. He hated her, but maybe not enough to make her stay with Celeste.

  Violet forced herself to move, ignoring the pain crippling her. She wobbled over to the mirror. Blood lashes turned her torn shift red. She cursed. “Damn it.” Now she only had one shift. She trembled, then took off her shredded shift, ripping it into more strips.. She carefully wrapped it around her sweating body to bandage her bloody wounds.

  She slipped on her dress and threaded her fingers through her blood stained hair. Celeste must have scratched her.

  She crept to her door and propped it open. No one was in the narrow hallway. Celeste had stayed into the wee hours of the night. The servants had long gone to bed. Terror slithered up her spine, but Violet forced herself to slip out of her room. If she was caught, she’d be imprisoned down with Amadi, or worse, tied to Dubois’s bed. Celeste always threatened to have Dubois rape Violet as a way to control her. Escape would fall into that punishment.

  But Violet had to try. ’Twas only a matter of time before Celeste would make good on the threat. Knowing Celeste, she’d enjoy watching Dubois brutalize her.

  Violet stuffed a pair of male trousers into her black bag. She’d managed to steal them out of Celeste’s room when she was outside talking with Dubois about the day’s events and giving orders for tomorrow. There was also a needle, thread, and rags. Many times, she’d nurse the servants in the house after Celeste had punished them—stitching open wounds, binding broken limbs. She couldn’t do much, but did what she could.

  She made her way to the kitchen. Her backside throbbed with each agonizing step. She moved slower than an old woman. No, that wasn’t true. An old woman would have moved faster.

  The kitchen was clean. In a few hours, slaves would rise to start cooking and preparing for the meals. Celeste liked to sleep in after a long night of gambling, but this didn’t mean the servants would have a break. Gèrard was an early riser. She didn’t want him to catch her alone.

  Chapter Six

  Violet crept into the dungeon again with a bucket of clean, hot, water. She hated having to clean up the men after Celeste was done with them. It wasn’t the mess that bothered her, but the shame that reflected in the men’s eyes. No man deserved what Celeste did to them.

  Celeste would send someone to clean Amadi soon. She and Amadi needed to make their escape before Celeste awoke.

  The hanging lanterns cast an eerie glow, and her shadow looked like a bent-up old woman. Pain throbbed in her back. She wobbled down the stairs one step at a time, wishing she could move faster, but her shaky legs would collapse if she tried. She clasped the pail tight. Water sloshed over the side, splashing onto the dried blood on the filthy floor. The chamber stank of death and fear. Too many men had faced their worst nightmares here. Brave men who discovered there were worse things than death.

  She edged closer to Amadi, where she’d left clean rags, a blanket, and her black bag. Panting, she slowly lowered the bucket. Her back pulsed with agony, and her palms stung where the metal dug into her flesh.

  Naked, Amadi was chained to the wall. The scent of burned flesh filled the dungeon, and she couldn’t help but notice the ugly brand on his inner thigh. His eyes were shut, and she thought she glimpsed wetness on his cheeks. She knew what Celeste had done, what she did to every new toy, as she called them when she purchased a man.

  He must hate Violet for betraying him. She bit her lip. What could she say? Saying sorry would not erase his pain and humiliation. Why would he want to take her with him? She had to convince him that she was a prisoner, too, and beg for his forgiveness.

  She dipped a rag into the hot bucket of water and squeezed out the excess water. She carefully patted the burned and blistered flesh on his thigh. His thighs were bigger than a tree trunk. She tried to ignore his manhood—even flaccid it was big. He was absolutely beautiful, a dark warrior. He deserved better than this. Could she tell him she’d be his willing slave if he’d take her away from this vile place? Pirates were known to be brutal with women captives. What would he do? Would he show her any mercy?

  “What are you doin’?” Amadi’s voice was labored, as if he fought to not cry out in agony. His accent held a hint of an Irish timbre.

  She was drawn to it, felt it embedding into her senses, leaving an imprint of a warrior. Her face reddened. Lordy, what if he caught her staring at his manhood? She stopped, wishing she could take away his pain. “I’m cleaning you.”

  Chains clanked, and he grabbed her wrist. Despite being broken, he was amazingly strong. “Get da hell away from me.”

  Not a good start. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Like hell you are. You’re here to—” He bit his lip and looked away. A proud man. Celeste’s favorite prey was an honorable man. She liked to break him down bit by bit until he was a broken shell.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His face darkened. “You know—” He lowered his gaze.

  “I know what she does.”

  “Sweet merciful heaven.” His voice broke, and he moved closer to the wall.

  “Not everyone knows.”

  “But you do.” Bitterness drenched his words.

  “She can’t lie to me.”

  “How da hell does a woman do dat to a man?”

  “Pain arouses her.”

  “Jesus.”

  “There wasn’t anything you could have done. You’re powerless. Like the rest of us.”

  He inhaled, his chest rising up and down. “No, I’m not. Tomorrow night’s da full moon.”

  Violet frowned. “What does the full moon have to do with you not being powerless?”

  He gave her a hard look, the same one her stepfather used to give her, filled with resentment and hate.

  “Are you planning an escape?”

  He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Why?”

  She didn’t know how to answer his question. The minute she’d seen him up on that slave auction, her heart pattered hard and her legs had trembled. He stood proud, and for some reason, power emitted from him. Since she’d come to this forsaken island, he was the only man she’d felt drawn to. She blurted, “If you are, will you take me with you?”

  His scowl turned darker. “What?”

  She was afraid if he got loose, he’d beat her like her stepfather. But she didn’t have much choice. “I’d sell myself to you. I can’t stay here any longer. I’d do anything, anything to escape.”

  “Even sell yourself to a pirate? You do know what pirates do to women captives?” He gripped her wrist.

  She winced. Despite being beaten, he was strong, damn strong. He could wring her neck with one hand. But ‘twas his veiled threat that chilled her blood. Was she condemning herself to a worse fate? Defeat seeped into her bones. She lowered her head. “Aye. Chloe is safe.”

  His eyes brightened. “How?”

  “Celeste has forgotten about her, and she’s hidden in one of the barracks. Michelle has her.”

  “Michelle? The woman from this afternoon?”

  “Aye.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He slowly released her, and red fingerprints wrapped marked her wrist. She placed the rag into the muddy water. She wished she had other abilities than knowing whether someone was lying. What good had that ever done? Gotten her into plenty of trouble.

  Under his breath, he mumbled, “I’m going to kill Celeste.”

  Violet overlooked his threat. Threats to the Maîtresse were dealt with swiftly. “Your head is bleeding.” She opened her bag. “I can stitch it.”

  But
his twisted and obviously broken knee, she wasn’t sure she could help. She’d brought what she could to heal him. Whenever she could, she volunteered to help the men condemned here. They were always the same—tall, brawny, handsome. She had trouble concentrating in the house, listening to their screams. ‘Twas worse when they were in the bedroom. And then there was the mess afterward…

  “She’s goin’ to kill me, isn’t she?”

  She blinked twice but held his perceptive gaze, hoping he’d believe her. “No, when she’s done, she’ll turn you out onto the sugarcane fields.”

  The minute she said it, burning pain hit her left cheek, and she tried to ignore the itching sensation, focusing on Amadi’s wounds.

  “Why does your face turn red when you lie?”

  She refused to look at him and kept washing his leg. “I’m not lying. You’ll be fine.” Unfortunately, her voice squeaked like a baby chick.

  Chains moved, and she pretended not to notice. Strong fingers clasped her chin and gently raised her face. Her cheeks burned. Not just from the itching rashes, but from staring into his handsome face. Celeste never hurt the men’s faces. But their poor bodies suffered a different fate.

  “You’re lyin’.”

  She shook her head, but he held her fast. “No, no, I’m not.”

  Despite the agony he must be enduring, he flashed a devilish smile. “When you lie, you break out in blotches, don’t you?”

  “I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He caressed her chin with a finger, sending chills through her like a prairie fire. “Truth, poppet.”

  His soft words penetrated her shield. She moistened her lips. Her heart beat hard, and she couldn’t lie, not to him. She tried protecting the other men to give them hope, always wishing her false promises would come true. A tear slipped down her face. “Aye, she will kill you.”

  “How long?”

  The fiery burn lessened on her right cheek. She forced herself to utter the truth. “After she takes you to her bed…She tires easily.” She closed her eyes, thinking of all those men, their cries, their agonizing deaths.

  “I’m not dat easy to kill.”

  She flung open her eyes. “Why?”

  He stared at her under hooded eyes. She frowned, trying to decipher how he could be telling the truth. “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me, how long will I be in her bed?”

  “Less than a week. She never keeps them more than a week.”

  “She does dis often?”

  She sighed. “Every time there’s a new shipment of slaves.”

  “Does she know you come down here?”

  “No, but she’ll send a servant to do this.”

  “Why does she want me clean?”

  “Because she wants to see where the skin is unblemished.”

  He leaned his head back. “So she can leave new marks?”

  “Aye. I’m sorry.” She pulled out her needle and thread. “May I?”

  He nodded. “Your rashes are gone.”

  She slowly stitched his temple. “I know. I told the truth.”

  “You can tell when other people are lyin’.” ‘Twas more of a statement than a question.

  “Aye. A curse.”

  “Why?”

  “People don’t like their lies to be discovered.” She lifted her hands. “’Tis how I got to be Celeste’s indentured servant.”

  “And?”

  “My stepfather is a gambler, and when his creditors came…”

  “He was hidin’ money, and you told ‘em he was lyin’?”

  “He didn’t have the money. But the creditors discovered this wonderful curse and decided to sell me.”

  “To Celeste?”

  “Aye. She was in London on holiday. Just my luck. I’ve tried to lie, to protect people from Celeste, but every time I do…”

  “You turn into a strawberry.”

  “An itchy strawberry.” She studied his knee. It was gnarled and split open. “I’m sorry I can’t do more for your knee. I could stitch it.” She glanced around the chambers, but there was nothing to brace it. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you goin’?”

  “To find some wood to make some splints. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He rested his head against the wall.

  ***

  She climbed the stairs then pressed her ear against the door. No sounds came from inside the kitchen. If the servants caught her, they wouldn’t talk. They usually stayed away from Violet, fearful she’d tell the mistress of any wrong doings. Celeste was known to question Violet at length, which meant among the servants and slaves, she was a pariah.

  She cracked open the door and found the kitchen empty. Without any further delay, she raced across the wooden floor and stepped out the back door. Luckily, the waxing moon lit up the grass. She hurried over to an oak fence that was being built around a small garden and found some discarded planks. For anyone else, they’d be too long, but not Amadi. Once again, she was lucky and found some rope. Celeste would undoubtedly question her, punish her. If Celeste whipped her again, Violet would not be able to walk.

  She sneaked back into the kitchen and hurried down the creepy stairs. Amadi sat still, alert. He glanced at her and shook his head. She stopped and pressed her back to the wall. He wasn’t alone.

  “Did you think someone was coming to rescue you?”

  Dubois. What was he doing down here?

  As if to answer the question, Dubois said, “You killed my best friend. I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

  “I thought I was da Maîtresses’ prize.”

  Sweat trickled down Violet’s back. Her feet refused to move, and her legs trembled so badly she was afraid Dubois would hear her knocking knees. Why was Amadi so calm? Dubois was known to castrate male slaves and do worse to females.

  “She’ll find another. You’re nothing special.”

  She had to do something. She put the planks and rope down on the stairs. Dubois had wrapped a rope around Amadi’s neck, and he yanked, forcing Amadi to expose his throat. With his busted knee and bound hands, he couldn’t move. He had said he was hard to kill. Why did men think they were invulnerable? But he hadn’t lied. No time to dwell.

  She thought about calling for Dubois and telling him Celeste wanted to see him. But if she lied, Dubois would know. He might be evil, but he wasn’t dumb. A distraction. She blew out each of the lanterns, and darkness blanketed the stairwell.

  “Who’s there?” Dubois demanded.

  She bent down and picked up one of the planks. Terror pierced her tense muscles. Stay strong.

  “I said, who’s there?” Dubois’s agitated voice made her stay glued to the floor.

  Footsteps crunched the pebbles on the stone floor, and a moving lantern cast Dubois’s shadow onto the back wall.

  She bit her lip, not sure she could do this. Her heart rolled around like a smashing boulder. She crouched on her knees, knowing Dubois would have the pistol at arm’s length. He was a foot taller than she, so she estimated if she knelt and he fired, he’d miss. But she could be wrong, dead wrong.

  She hugged the wall.

  His shadow crept closer and closer and closer. He turned the corner. With all her might, she swung and smashed the board into his knees. He yelled, then fired the pistol. Sulfur and smoke burned her eyes. Buckshot grazed her shoulder, and she winced.

  Dubois fell forward. The lantern crashed onto the floor. She smashed the wood over his head. He lay still. What had she done? Had she killed a man over a slave she barely knew?

  Cries came in from the house. She raced over to the wall and unlocked Amadi’s manacles, her hands shaking.

  “What have you done, poppet?”

  “He would have killed you. Or you’d wished you’d be dead. Stay here.”

  He rubbed his wrists and shook his head. “Where are you goin’?”

  “To keep you safe.”

  “You’re dat confident I’
ll take your offer?”

  Violet sagged. How was she going to convince him to take her? But she couldn’t worry about that now.

  Excited voices were upstairs. Violet opened the door as quietly as she could. When it creaked, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. No one was in the kitchen, but she could hear voices.

  “Did that come from inside the house?” Cook’s tired but startled voice was the closest.

  Celeste stepped into the kitchen, wearing a white frilly robe, her black hair cascading down her back. She held a pistol in her hand. Violet was too terrified to move.

  “Search the grounds,” Celeste ordered. “And the house.”

  Violet shut the door and hurried down into the chambers. She gathered all of the planks and rope and moved them to the far corner of the room, along with the bucket of water, her bag, and the rags. Amadi stood on one leg, leaning against the wall. His face was taut, and his cheek twitched. He was obviously in pain.

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “They’re searching the house.”

  “Will they come down here?”

  Her heart skipped a beat at his question. “I hope not.”

  She grabbed Dubois’ ankles and proceeded to drag him across the floor toward the jail cell. Agony plummeted through her. Sweat poured down her back, and her muscles screamed. ’Twas slow.

  Upstairs, footsteps hurried across the floor, and she shook, knowing the punishment she’d receive if caught. Finally, she crossed the cell door and dropped Dubois’ legs. He moaned again, this time louder. She grabbed a piece of robe and one of the rags she’d planned to wash Amadi with and hurried back to her prisoner. She bound his wrists and stuffed a rag into his mouth. He groaned, and his eyes fluttered open.

  “Hit him again,” Amadi said.

  “But—”

  “Do it. Or we’ll both be caught.”

  She blinked at his harsh voice. And for a moment, she glimpsed what he must have been like aboard the Phoenix. This was a man used to giving orders and expecting to be obeyed. Violet folded her fist and smacked Dubois across the head as hard as she could. Pain jolted through her arm, but Dubois fell silent.

  The kitchen door opened, and Violet’s blood turned to mud. Not willing to give up, she hid underneath the rack and bit back her revulsion of the dust, filth, and spider webs. Soft footsteps scraped down the stairs.