Kit could almost hear the drums from the galiot marking time for the oarsmen, yet he knew it was the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He felt the weight of two pistols at his hips, along with his cutlass. Strapped to his ankle and his back were two more knives. A red bandana kept the sweat from his eyes. He looked and felt every inch a pirate.
“Bring her about, Mr. Nash.”
The Calliope responded like a thoroughbred, keeping her broadside away from the guns and buying time for the sailors who worked like demons to stoke the furnace that would unleash hell in the form of Greek fire.
They had been caught by surprise. According to the information they’d been given, it should have been clear sailing past the Galite Islands. Instead, there were two galiots trying to herd them to the submerged rocks of Sorelle Reef.
Kit refused himself the luxury of cursing Ahmed Sharrouf as a double-dealing bastard. Obviously, he’d sold them out. All that preparation wasted. Never mind. With any luck…
He raised the telescope to his eye once more, and the crew of the more aggressive of the two galiots came into view as, behind him, led by Jonathan, more men were hoisting the battle cannon while others prepared Congreve rockets and shot for the smaller cannons. He steadied his arm and looked at each face, looking for one in particular.
There! A man dressed in green satin moved across the deck of his ship, barking commands. Kit silently willed him closer to the rail so he could be certain. Yes, there was no doubt. That was Kaddouri – a barrel-chested man with a full dark beard and a face now contorted with anger, so much so Kit could see the whites of the man’s eyes against his sun-darkened skin as he yelled down to the oarsmen. Well, well, thought Kit, the mountain had come to him.
“Send her windward!” he commanded and his crew increased their pace, knowing the action was sending them directly into the path of Kaddouri’s ship.
The unexpected maneuver allowed the Calliope a clean pass before the deck shuddered under a fusillade of cannon, one scoring a direct hit to the Calliope’s stern.
“Fire!” he called.
A barrage of rockets was launched, with half a dozen hitting the target; the forward lateen sail caught alight immediately. Kit had the Calliope brought around again for a volley of cannon fire.
“How soon are we ready for the Greek fire, Giorgio?”
“We need another ten minutes before the furnace is hot enough.”
“Make it eight.”
Giorgio nodded and yelled to two sailors to follow him to the galley.
“Captain, the second galiot is coming in to attack!”
“They’re preparing rockets,” Elias observed. He yelled to the crew manning the large cannon. “Ready!”
The Calliope took a direct cannon hit to the top of the mizzenmast. Crew ran to avoid splinters of timber and rigging raining onto the deck. The loss of the rear mast made it difficult for the ship to maintain its heading into the wind, reducing her ability to change direction quickly.
“As much speed as you can give us, Mr. Nash. Put this one between us and Kaddouri.”
Kit heard the hull scrape against the submerged reef. He called to man the pumps. He filled his lungs with air to issue another command when, by some miracle, the Calliope’s sails filled, pushing her off the rocks and plying her behind the second ship just as Kaddouri’s ship fired another round of cannon shot, some of which hit the second galiot in error.
“Fire!”
The crippled galiot took the full brunt of the Calliope’s rockets, numerous fires breaking out on deck. Kit was relieved. That vessel would be taking no further part in this battle. He used the cover of smoke to bring the Calliope around once more. The fire on Kaddouri’s forward sail had burned itself out, leaving a large scorched hole at a top corner, but she still seemed in excellent condition. Giorgio pointed to the men standing by.
“Captain! We have the Greek fire ready!”
“Get ready for another run.”
“Aye, Captain!”
Closer! Closer! Kit chanted to himself, now in time with the beat of the drummer marking time on the galiot. The Calliope took another hit, this time low down from chain shot, which scored a groove across the deck and took out some railing but otherwise caused little other damage.
“Fire!”
Liquid flame spewed from the pipe, falling at the galiot’s waterline and igniting the oars. In panic, the men within lifted the blades, and droplets of fire dripped onto the hull, starting new spot fires on deck. Through his glass, Kit searched for Kaddouri and found him near the stern.
“Cannon fire!” called Elias.
Kit braced himself for impact only to hear it was the Calliope firing.
“We’ve exhausted the Greek fire!”
“The galiot is swinging about!”
And it was, despite half its port side ablaze. Within moments, the ships would be close enough to almost touch. Kaddouri would be close enough to touch. White hot hatred, more molten than Greek fire, poured through him.
“Mr. Nash, the Calliope is yours!”
Kit pulled the rosary from his shirt and kissed the crucifix before scrambling up what remained of the mizzenmast shroud. He pulled on one of the dangling lines until it grabbed securely on a spar. From this vantage, he could see the chaos on the deck of the galiot and easily identified Kaddouri through the smoke. The Calliope pitched to avoid collision. He waited until both ships were passing at their closest to swing off the line and into the rigging of the enemy ship lower in the water alongside.
In just a few moments he and Kaddouri would be face to face for the first time. And for one of them, it would be his last day on earth.
Clutching his knife in the right hand, he caught a length of the galiot’s mainmast rigging with his left. His shoulder protested at taking his full weight, and he put the knife between his teeth to cross hand-over-hand to the relative stability of the boom. He had barely reached it when the vessel was rocked by the impact of a salvo from the Calliope.
Then he was falling.
Fear heightened his senses. Time seemed to stand still. He made a grab at another rope. He missed. He tried again and his fingers successfully closed on it. Searing pain burned through his fingers and palm as the rope slid through his grasp before he managed to get his other hand to it and halt his descent. He dangled above the deck for a moment until the shock ebbed.
Below him, the deck was in uproar. Crewmen ran to and fro, fighting the flames ignited by the Greek fire; others scrambled to reload the deck cannons and reply to the Calliope’s broadside. Panicked yells and screams from the terrified men chained at the oars below reached Kit’s ears. Over the top of that, he heard the pounding double-time beat of the drums and the determined bellow of a slavemaster trying to restore order.
The burning timber churned up choking smoke. The galiot lurched again and Kit used the momentum to swing across to the rope ladder running up the mainmast.
Ignoring the pain in his hands and shoulders, he descended until he was ten feet above the deck, betting the men onboard would be too engaged with the battle and saving their ship to pay attention to a lone intruder.
He hooked his feet through the ladder and wiped his hands on his breeches, barely noticing the smear of blood left behind. He took hold of his knife, once more, and scanned through the smoke and spot fires for the green silk that identified Kaddouri – marking the man for death.
The roar of cannons from the deck of the galiot deafened Kit for a moment. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and resisted the urge to look at the Calliope to see what new damage had been wrought. She was in Elias Nash’s hands now; he and the crew knew their job.
There!
He tracked Kaddouri as he walked along the deck, snarling threats and curses down to the galley slaves below.
Kit tasted the acrid smoke from the spot fires on deck and swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. He forced himself to breathe steadily and awaited the pirate’s re
turn approach, his heart beating triple time.
Come on, come on, you bastard, get closer. That’s right, get closer you son of a bitch.
Kit unleashed the monsters of hate and violence in his mind, giving them full rein to surge through his veins until that moment he felt invincible. He launched himself off the mast onto the deck.
His feet skidded in the mix of water and blood washing across the boards as the galiot rocked as a result of another salvo from the deck cannons, but he managed to keep his balance.
A sailor nearby did not. The man fell like a skittle and slid into one of the blazes. Kit ignored his screams. The roar in his own ears deafened him to any other sound. In fact, his vision was blind to anything else except the color of Kaddouri’s tunic.
He pushed forward on pure instinct, his cutlass in his right hand without conscious thought of having reached for it from his belt. He was within six feet of Kaddouri, almost in striking distance of the man’s broad back, before the pirate turned and he was recognized as an intruder.
He pushed forward, ready to skewer the man through before he could draw his scimitar to defend himself. There would be no chivalric rules of combat here. Kaddouri didn’t deserve the courtesy of meeting his executioner face-to-face. Kit had been prepared to stab him in the back, as long as he got to see the devil die.
But now they were facing each other, and Kit would take satisfaction in that all the more. Then the galiot lurched again. Kit stumbled back a step, giving Kaddouri the second he needed to arm himself, before Kit bore in.
Steel met steel. Kaddouri’s scimitar held Kit’s blade off. The galiot’s commander gave him a savage grin. “You’re on the wrong ship, sailor!”
“You mean Captain, you dog.”
The man’s grin widened as he realized who he faced. “I prayed for your death, Hardacre, and, by Allah, I get to bring it with my own hand.”
Kaddouri nodded to the men who now surrounded them both. “Finish off the schooner. I’ll finish off her captain. His death will be mine!”
As the men scattered, Kit swiped his blade down to free it from Kaddouri’s and readied himself for the first move. Kaddouri raised his arced blade and swept it down. Kit blocked it with his cutlass, his wrist thrumming with pain from the impact. He pushed forward, sweeping the knife in his left hand across Kaddouri’s stomach. The blade slashed his tunic and drew a line of blood, but nothing more.
Kaddouri thrust his weapon upwards just as the deck of the galiot shifted beneath them. The blade missed, but only barely. Kit breathed hard and brought his own blade down. It met air as a series of explosions rocked the vessel. Both men lost their footing and slid toward the railing on the port side. The hull groaned deeply. Kit recognized the distinctive sound. The ship was taking on water.
He regained his feet. Kaddouri attempted the same but tripped backwards, his legs tangled in fallen rigging. Kit surged forward and drove his sword into Kaddouri’s fat belly. The pirate screamed once and clutched his midsection. He looked up at his executioner with dismay as blood flowed through his fingers, staining his green tunic black.
“Go to hell,” Kit said, his voice hoarse from the smoke.
A grim smile spread across Kaddouri’s paling visage. His voice was weak. “I’ll be sure to greet you there.”
Then Kit heard it – a booming crack of timber splitting directly behind him. He leapt to his left, but it was not far enough. A section of falling mast smashed across his right thigh, then rolled away. Kit knew his leg was broken. His vision turned red with the agony of it, then it cleared. His eyes fell on Kaddouri. The man lay lifeless.
It was over.
Kit pulled himself along the deck until he reached the rail. Below him, the sea was littered with debris from the ship. Bodies of men bobbed among the flotsam. If he could reach a floating plank, there might be hope of rescue by the Calliope.
He gritted his teeth against the pain and positioned himself to tumble over the side as another explosion ripped through deck, closer this time. A piece of flying timber hit him in the back of the head as he fell. Kit was dimly aware of entering the water. There remained enough presence of mind to capture a lungful of air before the sea closed in around him.
Sophia, forgive me! God forgive me!
Unconsciousness claimed him.
Chapter Forty
“He has ordered you to see him.”
A glance to Laura saw her cousin looking as sick as she herself felt.
“Did he give any indication why?”
Yasmeen shook her head slowly. “You know better than that. Selim Omar explains himself to no one.”
Sophia rose and hid the trembling of her hand in her rose pink skirts. This was the first time he had demanded to see her and she knew what it meant. Laura seemed to find bravery somewhere deep inside, because she, too, stood, but Yasmeen stopped her before she had taken more than two steps.
“No. Selim Omar ordered Sophia be brought to him, alone.”
Sophia breathed in deep, hoping to bring her courage with her. She gave Laura a weak smile and squeezed her hands. Yasmeen raised the scarf from around her shoulders to her head before pulling the ends around until only her eyes were uncovered. Sophia kept her attention trained on Malik’s back as he led her into the main palace complex. Although much of the language was still foreign to her, she now knew enough of it to pick up some of the whispers of the eunuchs she passed. They speculated on what Selim Omar would do to her, and what she would be ordered to do for him.
Memories of Kit’s tender lovemaking, his worship of her body, and her willingness to give herself to him with pleasure and abandon, knowing he loved her. How she was safe in his hands recalled themselves vividly, and her heart ached. A million regrets couldn’t drown the yearning for him.
Malik opened the large doors and before her was a luxurious reception hall, where courtiers and supplicants milled, waiting to catch the eye of the sultan and do business. She ignored them. In England, she would keep her eyes ahead when she walked. Here, she had learned to keep them lowered. Ahead, she heard another door open and then another.
Selim Omar’s private sanctuary, his seat of power, was a combination of incense and masculinity, which he ruled like a king. He clapped his hands twice and four servants already in attendance left the room.
Malik bowed at the waist, giving her what she thought might be a pitying look as he passed, and closed the door behind him. Sophia hesitated a moment before bowing at the waist as the guard had done.
She didn’t avert her gaze now they were alone. What happened next would be out of her control, but the shame would be his, not hers. Never hers.
The thought gave her courage.
“Miss Sophia Green, I have missed you,” he said in crisp English.
She couldn’t help let a snort of disbelief leave her lips.
“You do not believe me?”
The fact he would converse with her in a language few would understand told her he wished their conversation to be private even from the eavesdroppers she knew lurked outside the door. The observation emboldened her.
“Who am I to judge your thoughts, Your Excellency? Your deeds speak for themselves.”
“Spoken like a diplomat; words to flatter, but with a sting in the tail.” He leaned back in his seat, a sumptuously-carved, Romanesque, curule chair with deep blue and silver damask cushions, taking his time to look at her from toe to head. “Remove your scarf. I want to see your face.”
Sophia swept the fabric back and stood taller, never letting her eyes leave his.
“I have missed our talks. You may not be the most beautiful woman in my household, but you are most intelligent – second to my wife, Rabia, of course.”
A silence continued uncomfortably. After a moment, Sophia averted her eyes and kept them on a low table before her. A hammered copper bowl filled with fruit held down the edges of a map. Spread across the table were other papers but, without glasses, they were impossible for her to read.
&nb
sp; “Remove your clothes.”
Sophia’s head shot up. Her body tensed in defensive preparation for his assault. But he did not move from where he reclined. Instead, he plucked a grape from the bowl and slowly bit down on it.
“Do it now.”
Part of her mind wanted to scream and for her to gouge his eyes out, but it warred with another reminding her cold cunning would be her only guarantee of survival. Without emotion, Sophia loosened the ties holding her garment together and allowed it to fall.
No lust lit Selim Omar’s eyes. He took in her form, lingering for a moment on the apex of her thighs, now bare of soft curls – a tangible sign of his ownership of her.
There was no hint of desire for her here. If there was an emotion she could discern, it would be faint amusement. What he wanted of her was something else, something that couldn’t be satisfied by sexual acquiescence.
Sophia felt the weight of three gold bangles on her right arm – the sign she was part of Rabia’s retinue – the cold of the marble floor at her feet, the slight movement of a breeze from outside making its way through the space in the geometric shutters that let in light and air. Once her eyes grew used to the outside glare, she was sure could see the harbor beyond.
And that’s where she kept her focus. Let the damned man stare at her all day if that was his wish.
“You are fluent in many languages, I hear.” There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice.
“I speak and read English, Spanish, French, and some Italian, Sicilian, Latin, Greek. Now I speak some Arabic.” She couldn’t help the emphasis she placed on the second sentence.
“Very good.”
She saw his indulgent smile. He looked at the sheaves of paper on the table as though searching for one in particular. He found what he was looking for and picked it up.
“Read it to me.”
He stretched out his arm, offering the paper but making no effort to leave his chair. Sophia ignored the proffered paper a moment. She stepped out of her discarded gown and, with slow deliberation, picked up the garment, folded it neatly, and placed it on a large cushion by her feet.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 167
