by Merry Farmer
She inhaled deeply, hoping to fill her nostrils with a last faint trace of the exotic aromas. Instead, the unmistakable smell of camphor oil wafted from the American’s clothing.
Stephenson chuckled. “So, you will miss the island, and you’ve had to leave the place where your husband is buried.”
“Yes,” she replied, reluctant to explain Torsten had accidentally shot himself in a rum-induced haze with the company-issue pistol that was supposed to protect them both. She’d expected Torsten’s superiors to confiscate the weapon but, in a bizarre episode at his graveside, it had been presented to her as a keepsake. She’d stared at it as if the pompous functionary had handed her a poisonous snake but, now, she was glad of the weapon nestled in the hidden recesses of her portmanteau. However, she wasn’t about to reveal to anyone that she was armed.
Piracy on the Spanish Main had been all but eradicated these days, but a woman alone had to be prepared to defend herself. She almost sniggered at the thought, doubtful she’d have the strength or fortitude to fire the heavy pistol in any event.
The Juana’s first mate peered through the telescope. “What say you, Lázaro?” Gatito purred. “One last prize?”
Capitán Maximiliano Aguero supposed he should be used to the biblical moniker after too many years cheating death. “Let me see,” he replied, raking fingernails through the irritating stubble under his chin.
His resolve to abandon the life of a pirate had crumbled too easily. Yet, he had to face the reality that it was only a matter of time before the British, Danish and American navies caught up to him. Even the French had recently joined the hunt for the elusive Juana. After years avoiding pursuit up and down the Spanish Main, he and his crew had agreed to make for their hidden island base, divide what remained of their treasure, then return to Puerto Rico. There, they’d go their separate ways after scuttling the ship.
He filled his lungs, hoping wherever life took him, he’d always have the smell of the sea in his nostrils. “She’s Danish,” he announced after focussing the lens. “Low in the water.”
The Hekla looked to have more than the usual number of passengers, probably refugees from the collapse of the sugar industry on San Tomás, escaping with whatever they could carry.
Most of the booty he and his crew had ever stolen was long gone—sold to feed the poor and hungry of his impoverished island homeland. The Danish sloop was an irresistible bounty placed in his path and might provide the cash he badly needed to start a new, anonymous life.
A gift from God.
Easy prey.
“Once she’s behind Culebra, we’ll intercept.”
The shave he’d looked forward to would have to wait.
First Salvo
The moment the captain of the Hekla caught sight of Lázaro’s ship, the Danish sloop increased her speed, but not enough to be of concern. The flag of Gran Colombia atop the Juana’s mast usually lulled the prey into a false sense of security until it was too late.
Lázaro kept his eyes on the prize. His crew knew exactly what to do without any command from him. The tidy sloop armed with a brace of four-pound swivel guns mounted fore and aft was more effective than a galleon when it came to maneuverability and making a quick escape.
Small crews were more reliable and loyal. Lázaro treated every man aboard as his equal, but they acknowledged his word was law. They also knew their captain had influential Puerto Rican relatives in positions of authority who turned a blind eye to their activities—the principal reason they’d evaded prosecution for so long.
When the Hekla disappeared behind Culebra, the Juana increased speed and changed direction to intercept her.
A half hour later, Lázaro was too far away to see the Danish captain’s face when he realized he’d sailed into a trap, but there was no mistaking the panic on board as people rushed here and there, pointing to the sloop bearing down on them. He imagined the disbelief and shock.
How can the ship that was behind us now be in front?
Are they pirates?
Will they kill us?
Do something!
In truth, there was nothing to be done.
Lázaro’s feelings about the inevitable surrender were mixed. He’d always relished the hunt, the chase, the elation of victory. Men had died in futile attempts to resist capture, but he’d never taken pleasure in their deaths. “No, my Danish friends,” he declared as the Juana’s guns fired the first salvo across the bow. “You are lucky. Today, Lázaro kills no one. It’s just your coin he needs.”
Lost in bitter memories, Heidi gradually became aware people on board were rushing about, shouting at each other. Stephenson’s grip on her elbow jolted her back to reality. “Pirates,” he hissed, his ruddy face now drained of color.
Panic tightened her throat. She retrieved the bag wedged between her feet and clutched it to her breast. The American made a grab for it. “Don’t worry about that now,” he growled.
She resisted, but the ship suddenly lurched to one side, throwing her into the arms of the elderly gentleman. He staggered backwards against the railing. “He’s trying to outmaneuver them,” he shouted hoarsely amid the din.
She fought to keep her balance but, when the ship lurched again in the opposite direction, Stephenson toppled forward, knocking her to the deck. She jerked her head back, the air whooshing from her lungs when he fell on top of her.
Stunned by the blow, and dizzied by sun, sails and sky swirling above her, scarcely able to breathe, she writhed beneath his weight, the leather portmanteau squeaking its objections between them. No amount of frantic pushing had any effect, except to clog her throat with the reek of camphor. She stilled abruptly when it came to her she was trying to shove off a dead weight—literally. The American didn’t seem to be breathing.
She was trapped beneath a dead man while people stampeded around her, oblivious to her plight. Women screamed, children wailed, men shouted. A loud cannon boom was followed by a moment of eerie silence, except for the deafening pulse throbbing in her ears. Then the cacophony began again.
It appeared the pirates hadn’t hit the Hekla with their first salvo. Somehow, she had to retrieve the weapon from her luggage. She’d heard horrifying tales of what happened to women captured by pirates. If the captain couldn’t evade the marauders, the pistol was her only chance.
With one final effort she squirreled her hand into the bag, elated when her fingers closed around the weapon.
Sunlight flashed from behind a flapping sail, bringing on nausea. She closed her eyes. Perhaps if she stayed very still, they might think she was already dead.
Amazon Or Viking?
Lázaro led the boarding party, sword drawn. His crew had been trained to shriek bloody murder at the top of their lungs and the tactic achieved its desired effect. Terrified passengers huddled together around the mast. His men quickly tied up the Danish crew as he strutted in front of his captives, a loot sack held high. “You will empty your pockets and place your valuables into this bag,” he declared.
The blank looks told him most of his captives didn’t speak Spanish. A Danish seaman came to his rescue. “Penge,” he explained. “Smykker.”
Handing the sack to Gatito, Lázaro resisted the urge to chuckle at the speed with which the passengers divested themselves of their coin and jewelry. “Tell them their willingness to comply has saved their lives,” he lied. They didn’t need to know he hadn’t intended to kill them. “I will scuttle the ship within easy reach of land.”
Gasps of relief mingled with consternation spread through the crowd. They obviously considered themselves fortunate to escape with their lives, but still had to face the prospect of a brief dunking.
“Have you no pity, sir?” the captain asked. “These people are refugees, with nothing to…”
The passengers grumbled, clearly reluctant to upset the pirates.
“Dos muertos aquí, Capitán” Gatito shouted.
When every head swiveled to two dead bodies lying on the deck near
the stern, Lázaro frowned. Not a single shot had been fired, so how had two people been killed?
He strode over, even more puzzled by the sight of an elderly man slumped atop a blonde woman—Scandinavian judging by the Nordic cheekbones. Even in death, her beauty stirred interest in his balls.
Lovely.
“Sí,” Gatito replied, fingering the wisps of blonde hair that had come loose from a tight bun. “Hermosa.”
Lázaro coughed, embarrassed he’d apparently uttered his thoughts out loud, and why he felt insanely jealous of his first mate was beyond his comprehension.
His hackles rose. Had the old man—an American by the look of his clothes—tried to take advantage? Or perhaps he was her father. But how had he died?
Two of his crew emptied the dead man’s pockets then dragged the corpse off the woman, revealing a voluptuous body as stunningly appealing as her face. She’d tried to protect her honor with her luggage. He wondered what precious object lay inside that she’d reached for in the throes of death.
“Amazona,” Gatito exclaimed.
Lázaro was about to nod his agreement with the comparison to the lithographs of the legendary Greek warriors when she blinked open startlingly blue eyes, drew a pistol from the bag and waved it in his face.
“More like a Vikinga,” he replied, genuine fear creeping up his spine for the first time in his perilous life.
Heidi tried desperately to hold onto her wits but she was swimming in a blurry haze. A tall man leaned over her, his broad shoulders blocking the sun, which she appreciated, but he was blabbering in Spanish about Vikings. Didn’t he realize she was holding a pistol?
The reason for the weapon escaped her for the moment, but it had to do with…
She inhaled deeply, glad she could breathe again. Something had fallen on top of her, but the weight was gone now.
“Give me the pistol, querida,” the man said softly. “Pistolen, tak.”
It was a long time since her husband had called her darling, and the stranger said please, so she supposed…
She pouted when the weapon was wrenched from her grip. “I was going to give it to you,” she wanted to say, but her dry throat seemed incapable of forming words.
“Take her to the Juana,” he said. “She’ll drown if we leave her here.”
“I don’t want to drown,” she finally managed as she was lifted from the deck by another man. “You stink,” she declared, wrinkling her nose when her bearer’s pungent odor assailed her nostrils.
“And you’re too heavy,” he replied in Spanish. “Gorda.”
Torsten had accused her of being fat. The memory rankled. “Vellystig,” she hissed.
The man who’d taken her pistol chuckled. “I’ll take her. She’s too voluptuous for you, Gatito.”
She nuzzled her head against his broad chest when the sweaty man gave her over to him. “You smell better,” she murmured, feeling safer. “Thank you for saving me from the pirates.”
His hearty laughter was the last thing she heard before surrendering to the haze.
Lázaro settled the Danish woman on the narrow bunk in his tiny cabin. He raked his gaze over her, deciding she’d be more comfortable if he removed her shoes. A peculiar desire to see her toes seized him, so he peeled off her hose as well. For a tall woman, she had dainty feet.
He had no idea why he’d decided to bring her aboard. In her present state, she would not have survived the scuttling of the Hekla, but the plan was to sink the Juana after they reached their hideaway. What was he going to do with her then? He certainly couldn’t take her on his quest to find a sanctuary where he wasn’t a wanted man with a bounty on his head.
In any case, why would he want to saddle himself with a woman, a foreigner at that? Just because she was beautiful and stirred desires he’d long thought dead after his wife’s demise.
He took her pistol from his belt and examined it. The DØK branded into the handle indicated it was from the Danish West India Company, but they didn’t issue weapons to women. If she had a husband, where was he? Had he been killed? If so, he sympathized with her loss. He knew what it was to lose a spouse to violence.
He put the gun in the oak chest beside his bunk then moved his chair to the shadowed corner and took pleasure in watching the rise and fall of her breasts, until he heard footsteps on deck. His men had returned from scuttling the Hekla. The Juana was underway before he reached the bridge.
Gatito pointed astern to Culebra. The Danish ship lay at a peculiar angle in the shallows, the passengers wading to shore. “Nothing of value in the hold,” the first mate grumbled, offering the sack of loot. “We have her bounty.”
Grinning, Lázaro accepted the plunder. “Set a course for Isla Espada,” he commanded before going below to stow the sack in his chest, heartened by the cheers of his crew.
Steely Resolve
Heidi blinked open her eyes and stared up at low beams. She was still on a ship, which explained the rolling motion that had woken her. A dull ache throbbed at her temples and she recalled cracking her head when she fell—or was shoved.
“The American,” she whispered as the memory resurfaced. But the accident had happened shortly after dawn, and the cabin was in near darkness.
Slowly, she turned onto her side and gripped the wooden railing of the bed, realizing it was a bunk. The linens were clean and crisp, but the scent of a man lingered.
Her portmanteau lay at her feet.
Her heart lurched when she remembered the man who’d carried her. How foolish to think he was anything other than a pirate. And she was in his bed. Had he…?
She ran her hands from breasts to thighs. Her clothing seemed to be intact, the blouse buttoned to her throat, her bloomers still in place. Surely she would know if she’d been violated? Torsten’s attacks usually resulted in torn garments, bruised limbs and a shattered heart. They were humiliating experiences a woman could not sleep through. Her shoes had been removed, but perhaps that had been a thoughtful gesture on the pirate’s part.
She rolled onto her back, snorting at the folly of the ludicrous notion. A considerate brigand! Her headache worsened.
She tensed when male voices penetrated from nearby and boot-steps echoed overhead. She strained to listen. Were they deciding who would be first in line? Unlikely. That would be the captain’s prerogative. Alarming as the prospect was, she found herself thinking an intimate encounter with such a strong, well-muscled man would be…
“Luder,” she chastised. Only a whore would think such things. He was a pirate, a criminal, a murderer.
They might not have raped her yet, but they would, or they’d hold her for ransom, or throw her overboard. The consequences of lying abed contemplating what might happen were too terrifying. She sat up and peered into the shadows, looking for anything she could use as a weapon.
The pirate had taken her pistol.
She espied a large padlocked chest next to the bunk. “Aha,” she exclaimed, lifting a leg to clamber over the railing.
The click of a latch distracted her.
“Leder du efter dette?” the pirate asked. “Are you looking for this?”
It hadn’t been Lázaro’s intention to scare the Danish woman out of her wits, but he set down the pistol and leaped forward to save her before she thudded to the floor of the cabin. Fortunately, her copious skirts tangled in the ornately carved railing, and she hung there for a moment until he lifted her safely onto the bunk. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, though what flashed in those intriguing blue eyes looked more like anger than fear. The inelegant near-calamity had clearly embarrassed her.
Breathing hard, she retreated until her back was against the wall. “I’m not afraid,” she retorted in his language.
The steely resolve in her eyes confirmed it—or, at least, she was determined not to show fear—and he wondered at the reason for the wall of defense. She’d been hurt before.
He was a criminal, a thief, a brigand, but he couldn’t abide cowards who brutalized women.
The only man he’d ever deliberately murdered was the Jamaican who’d beaten his wife to death in an attempt to learn his whereabouts. Juana had died for naught. He never told her where he was going or where he’d been, thinking to protect her. The bounty on his head had caused her death. He’d never forgiven himself for it, despite the sense of righteous vengeance slitting the man’s throat had brought.
“I need my shoes,” his captive announced.
“Certainly, señorita,” he replied, chuckling inwardly at the demanding tone. “If you are planning a stroll on deck, it’s chilly this evening.”
She pulled her knees to her chest and glared. “Señora, not señorita. I’m a married woman.”
He arched a brow as he picked up a shoe from the floor and reached for her foot. “And where is your husband, señora? Was he the old man lying atop you on the Hekla?”
She pouted, grabbed the shoe and struggled to get her foot into it, unwittingly exposing more of her calf than she likely intended. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tempting bare skin.
“Absolut ikke,” she replied vehemently. “Definitely not.”
Then she softened. “Is he dead?”
“Very,” he replied.
She averted her gaze. “Did you kill him?”
He laughed. “No, I think you did.”
She scowled and grabbed the second shoe. “He seemed uncomfortable in the heat. We fell when the ship changed course suddenly.”
“Then, I suppose it was my fault,” he conceded, relieved she’d covered her legs before he began to think too hard on the intimate place he’d encounter if he danced his fingers up those long limbs. “Can I assist you out of bed? We don’t want another tumble.”
