by Merry Farmer
“I meant it,” Dick said, dragging her away from the railing kicking and screaming. “You’re mine now, and I intend to have you in every way.”
“No, no!” Letty screamed and flailed, but his grip was too strong.
He carted her back to the center of the main deck, throwing her over a huge coil of rope so hard the air was knocked from her lungs. Before she could get her bearings, he was tearing at the fastening of her breeches, tugging and jerking to get them down over her hips.
The edges of Letty’s vision went black with panic as he worked. She was reminded too keenly of her wedding night and the way Pigge had forced himself on her, laughing the whole time and telling her to take it like the whore she was. The memories were so strong and the panic of the present moment so sharp that she almost lost her mind and her will to fight.
It was only the sudden shout of, “Good God, man. What in hell are you doing?” in a refined accent that dragged her back to her senses.
Dick backed away from her suddenly, and as Letty jerked straight she saw it was because none other than Lord Benedict Killian had grabbed hold of him and wrenched him away from her.
“Stay away from me or you’ll get what’s coming to you,” Dick growled at the nobleman.
Lord Killian gaped at him. “You said this was a rescue. You said you were returning the ship to us so that we could retrieve the ladies and continue on.”
“I lied,” Dick growled, drawing a long knife from his belt.
He lunged at Lord Killian, but the nobleman was fast enough to get out of the way.
“Benedict!” one of the other merchant passengers called out, then threw a sword to Lord Killian.
Lord Killian caught it and rounded on Dick. “You’ll rue the day you tried to lay a hand on a noblewoman,” he said with aristocratic bravado.
Letty didn’t care how dramatic he sounded. He was defending her. Better still, he was distracting Dick. That gave her all the time she needed to adjust her breeches and refasten them, and to search the area for a weapon of her own.
“Is it true that noblemen bleed blue?” Dick said, stepping around Lord Killian menacingly, as though looking for a weak area to attack.
“You’ll never find out,” Lord Killian said. He lunged toward Dick, sword pointed.
All around the deck, similar battles broke out. The male passengers from the merchant ship that had been freed—presumably to help Dick’s pirates in their wicked endeavor—took up arms and fought back against their captors. Shouts of rage and betrayal echoed throughout The Vixen. The ladies who had been stolen from The Growler wept and screamed. Letty found herself wishing that Malvis were with her. Malvis would fight back without a doubt, and if she would, Letty could too.
She found a pistol discarded on the deck near the coil of rope, but it had already been discharged. She snatched it up all the same, frantically looking for the materials she needed to reload it. The battles raged on around her, and she dodged swords, daggers, and gunfire as she searched. At last, she made it to a small trunk tucked under one of the ladders leading up to the quarterdeck that contained powder, shot, and patches. With shaking hands, she went to work, desperately trying to remember all the steps Martin had taught her to load the gun.
She was just in the process of ramming the bullet down when a far greater boom than any pistol could make sounded. A shriek followed, then an enormous crack from above. A splash far off to the port ended the series of sounds just as another boom rent the air.
“We’re under attack,” someone screamed from above. “They’re shooting at our rigging.”
“The Growler is coming,” another voice hollered from the aft deck. “They’ve caught the wind and they’re making right for us.”
Chapter 10
“Forward!” Martin shouted, cutlass held aloft as though he were some figure from mythology. “Ram them if you have to. Prepare for boarding.”
From the moment he’d heard Lettuce’s cry across the night-black sea, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let Dick sail away to whatever fate had in store for him. He’d been so busy fighting the mutineers that had freed themselves from the hold and forcing them back to The Vixen that he hadn’t seen Dick carry Lettuce and some of the other women off. It was only when the tide of the battle turned quickly and the mutineers fled to The Vixen and sailed off that he comprehended what had happened. That was when he gave the order to fire into the other ship’s rigging to stop it in the water.
“Another volley, Captain?” Rayburn asked, rushing up to Martin’s side at the railing facing The Vixen.
Martin squinted into the darkness, judging how long it would take for The Growler to catch up to the other ship. His heart pounded in fear and a voice in the back of his mind screamed in panic, seeing nothing but the loss of the beautiful life he’d been so certain would be his by sunrise. He was a captain, though, and even though his command was a mere pirate vessel, he had to be a leader.
“No,” he said at last, dragging his eyes away from the other ship to assess the readiness of his men. They all stood at the ready on The Growler’s decks, grappling hooks and planks in their hands, weapons in their belts. Lady Malvis stood right in the thick of them, armed to the teeth and looking ready for blood. “They’ve given up fleeing.” He turned back to The Vixen. “Look. They’re spoiling for a fight.”
He was right. Dick charged around the other ship’s quarterdeck, hollering orders to his crew to lower the sails and turn about. The men who had been under Martin’s command so recently lined up along The Vixen’s rail, shouting vows and curses, ready to do battle with their old mates. It was a sorry state of affairs for a man who valued life and comfort, who had become a pirate for the booty, not the blood. One way or another, it would all end before dawn broke over the eastern horizon.
He held his breath as the ships drifted closer and closer together, thanking God that Dick was greedy enough not to damage either vessel, likely in the hopes he could take both prizes in the end. Martin searched for Lettuce, prayed she was safe. She’d disappeared behind the gathering mass of the enemy, but he couldn’t see whether she’d moved out of the way voluntarily or if she’d been forced. As long as Dick still issued his bloodthirsty orders from The Vixen’s quarterdeck, there was a chance Lettuce was safe.
And then the moment came. With a crunch that set Martin’s teeth on edge, the two ships met, and men from both vessels threw hooks, set planks, and swung from the rigging. Ferocious roars sounded all around as the two crews charged each other. A burst of opening gunfire rent the air as pistols were discharged and then tossed back to those who had been charged with reloading.
“This one is ready, my love,” Lord Ainsley shouted to Lady Malvis, throwing her a loaded pistol as she charged toward the side of the ship. He wore a powder horn around his neck, like a necklace to compliment his tattered gown, and a pouch of bullets hung from a belt cinching his waist.
“Keep them coming, sweetheart,” she called back, making the endearment sound like its own war cry.
Martin didn’t have time to stop and marvel at the odd pair or how perfectly they worked together, in spite of their bizarreness. He had to find Lettuce and rescue her before any harm came to her.
With swift, light feet, he leapt to one of the planks connecting the two ships and ran across. The moment he landed on The Vixen’s deck, he was beset by the man he’d been certain shot him the day before. Lingering fury at that betrayal made it easy to fight with the man, and yet, he was loath to kill him outright. He was still responsible for the bastard, even if he was a traitor.
The shooter didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. He yelled wordlessly at Martin, thrusting and slashing with his dagger. Martin held him off easily and wielded his cutlass with ruthless efficiency, cutting the man’s forearm and forcing him to drop his weapon and reel backwards. The blow was enough to keep the man out of the rest of the melee, so Martin moved on.
“Lettuce!” he shouted, shoving his way through a pair of men locked i
n battle. “Lettuce!”
“Martin!” He heard her answering call, but still couldn’t see where she was. All he could do was follow the sound of her voice deeper into the swarm of battle.
At last, he caught a flash of her pale face in the light of the lamps that had been lit for the battle. She continued to search for him over the writhing hoard of fighting men. He dodged a blood-drenched dagger that had gone flying out of the hand of whoever had been using it, pushing on.
“Stop right there!”
Before he could reach Lettuce, Martin was faced with a wild-eyed nobleman from the merchant vessel—Lord Benedict Killian, whose father Dick had killed on the first day. The man held a sword as though he’d been trained to use it. Martin fell into a battle-ready crouch, his cutlass held in front of him, but he couldn’t decide whether to attack.
“Get out of my way,” he said at last. “I’m rescuing Lettuce.”
Lord Killian blinked. “No, I’m rescuing the ladies from our ship from you villainous pirates.”
Martin eased up his stance. “Look around you, man,” he shouted over another volley of gunfire. “Who is the enemy?”
Lord Killian’s shoulders dropped and he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I can’t tell anymore,” he said.
Martin pivoted toward the quarterdeck, where Dick was fighting off Rayburn. He pointed his cutlass to the fight. “There’s your enemy,” he said. “Mutineers. I had no intention to attack you in the first place, let alone harm you now.”
It was all the explanation he had time for, and it was woefully inaccurate. But by some miracle, Lord Killian studied Martin long and hard, then nodded and shifted until he stood by Martin’s side instead of opposing him.
“I still can’t tell which are your men and which are his,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter.” Martin shook his head and pushed forward toward the quarterdeck. “Capture Dick and the rest of them will give up.”
Lord Killian nodded, and together the two of them stormed up the ladder to the quarterdeck.
As soon as they reached the top of the ladder, Martin was nearly pushed back by Lady Malvis.
“Stay out of my way,” she hollered, passing the ladder, Lord Ainsley in her wake, and rushing toward where Dick and Rayburn battled, pistol raised. She fired, but her bullet didn’t seem to hit anything. Lord Ainsley was quick to exchange her empty pistol for a full one.
“I didn’t know she had it in her,” the nobleman panted as he and Martin rushed the deck.
Martin would have replied, but at that moment he spied Lettuce mounting the quarterdeck from the ladder on the starboard side. She had a pistol as well, but it was the wideness of her eyes and the stark expression of fear she wore that arrested Martin. And yet, she continued forward.
“Martin!” she shouted when she spotted him.
In the midst of the battle, shouts and gunfire and the clang of steal blades all around them, Martin forgot everything to run to Lettuce. They met midway across the deck, Martin opened his arms, and Lettuce threw herself against him.
“You’re safe,” he promised her, indulging in one, mad moment simply to hold her and reassure himself that she was whole and unharmed. “I’ll never let you go again.”
“I know you—”
Her reply was cut off by a shot and a cry of pain. A second later, another shot was fired, which was followed by a thump. All activity on the quarterdeck stopped, though the battle continued on the main deck.
Martin and Lettuce turned together to see Dick lying on the deck in a pool of blood. Standing only a few feet away from him, pistol still smoking, was Lady Malvis. Her color was high and her eyes were wide with frenzy. Her chest heaved as she panted, then slowly broke into a laugh. Rayburn stood on one side of her and Lord Ainsley on the other, both staring at Dick’s dead body at Lady Malvis’s feet.
“It serves him right,” she said, her voice slightly hysterical. “After all the women he hurt and all the chaos he caused, it served him right. He’ll never hurt me again.”
Unease spilled down Martin’s back. He hadn’t realized Dick had interfered with Lady Malvis. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how impossible it was that he could have.
“Her father,” Lettuce whispered by his side, somehow sensing his confusion.
That was all the explanation Martin needed, particularly as Lady Malvis proceeded to drop her pistol and burst into tears. She turned to Lord Ainsley, who closed her in a hug and stroked her hair, murmuring something to her that the rest of them couldn’t hear.
On the main deck below, the fighting stopped. Word spread fast that Dick was dead, and with him any chance the mutineers had of succeeding in their plan. Martin glanced out over the deck. His men were already subduing Dick’s men and marching them back to the aft deck as prisoners.
“Tie those men up,” Martin called, not sure the order was necessary. “Make sure they don’t escape this time. Secure both ships. Get the wounded over to Rackstraw.” He turned back to the sickening sight of Dick’s corpse. “Throw the dead traitors overboard.”
It might have been a heartless order. Some of the men who had died had families on shore. But bodies in the tropical sun were a liability. If any of his loyal men had died, he would give them a proper burial at sea at first light. For the moment, though his first responsibility was to the men who had fought for him and survived, as well as Lettuce.
“Are you well?” he asked, tossing his cutlass aside and turning to face her. He held her arms to reassure himself and to steady her. Lettuce nodded, but she looked overwhelmed and trembled.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Truly, I am. Though I do not think I am cut out for the life of a pirate.”
“I’m not either,” he confessed, pulling her into his arms once more. “I am most definitely not either.”
The rest of the night contained a flurry of activity. Martin took Lettuce back to The Growler, but she refused to go to bed. Instead, she helped Rackstraw treat the wounded while Martin strode the decks of both ships, making certain everyone was doing their part to clean up all traces of the battle and secure the prisoners. He thanked God that his men were loyal, that those who followed Dick had been neutralized, and, which surprised him, that the remaining prisoners from the merchant vessel helped him instead of standing in his way.
“We were beset by pirates several days ago,” Lord Killian told the authorities in St. John’s when they made port the next morning. Several law officers had boarded The Growler before allowing anyone to disembark, but they didn’t find what they expected to find. “This man, Captain Foster, aided our efforts to throw them off and brought us safely here.”
“He did?” the baffled head officer said.
“Absolutely,” Lord Killian went on. “I owe him my life.”
Martin fought to keep his expression neutral as he watched the exchange, Lettuce by his side. It wasn’t unusual for an island like Antigua to look the other way where piracy was concerned, as long as the right officials received the right bribes, but it was still a risk to bring The Growler and The Vixen so boldly into port. With Lord Killian’s good word, however, all the port authorities could do was narrow their eyes and grumble instead of taking Martin into custody or causing a scene.
“All right, then,” the officer said. “You’re cleared to dock and unload.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Martin told him later, once the ships were docked, the journey was officially over, and the last of the mutineers handed over to the authorities. “But I’m grateful you did.”
“Perhaps someday you’ll be able to repay me,” Lord Killian said with a wink, slapping Martin’s back. He walked off, climbing down into the boat that would take him to shore, before Martin could reply.
“Why in God’s name was the man so lenient with me?” he asked Lettuce as they headed across the deck, making toward the door to his cabin.
“I believe Lord Killian is a good and noble man,” Lettuce answered, th
ough she sounded as surprised as he was. “I didn’t think those existed until this voyage, but now I’ve met several.” She turned to him with a smile.
Martin didn’t just return her smile, he swept her into his arms for a long kiss. She responded openly, sliding her arms around him and lifting to her toes, in spite of the dozens of crew members scurrying about the deck watching them. One or two let out whistles of approval.
“I knew you were little more than a slut with a fine title,” Lady Malvis said, interrupting him. Her words weren’t cruel or pointed, though.
Martin let Lettuce go, and they both faced her. Lady Malvis still wore breeches and a belt with a pistol at her side. Thankfully, Lord Ainsley had changed into men’s clothing once more, though with the beard he’d begun to grow in the last few days he looked anything but respectable.
“Mr. Foster,” Lord Ainsley said with an incongruously cheerful smile. “My darling wife and I would like to make an offer for these ships.”
Martin’s heart stopped in his chest and his jaw dropped. “You want to buy the ships?”
“Yes, well, I’m not certain that The Vixen truly belongs to you,” Lord Ainsley said apologetically. “Or does it as a spoil of war? I don’t know how these things are done. Perhaps someone has written a book about it that I could consult? I am rather fond of a good book, you know. In fact, my estate back home has quite a library, collected over generations by—”
“Stick to the point, sweetheart,” Lady Malvis said.
“Yes. Quite.” Lord Ainsley beamed at her as though the two of them had been on a pleasurable honeymoon cruise instead of a dangerous pirate mission. He cleared his throat and turned back to Martin. “That is to say, my wife and I find that we are rather fond of the high seas and marauding and all that. We should like to continue on as pirates, and to do so, we require your ships. But don’t worry, we will pay handsomely for them.”
Martin was still baffled. Lettuce stared at the couple with equal perplexity. “But what about your title?” she asked. “What about your lands and holdings in England? What about your family?”
