by Vivienne Cox
He sighed. Well, who counted odds in a situation like this? Luck was on his side – she always was, though sometimes it was difficult to appreciate her kindness when you were waist deep in snakes or wondering if the tribe who’d just crowned you king were going to actually bother to kill you before boiling you for supper – or just pop you in the pot alive and screaming.
Luck was a restless, teasing jade, and one Alexander kept sweet. Mostly. Her slaps - so far - had undoubtedly been outweighed by her kisses. Though the snakes almost tilted the balance the other way. He shivered, and drank again. Snakes were nasty and slithery. They hissed –
“So, Alexander, what shall we do with ‘im?”
O’Connell’s voice made him look up. The captive – hanging, barely balanced on the balls of his feet still managed to look haughty, for all that he was skinny as a stick, with ribs arching up over a concave belly, and hip bones that seemed sharp as blades under his skin. New bruises painted bright,vibrant colours amongst the dull old ones. That he’d been stripped was nothing unusual. Humiliate the prisoner – especially one as proud as this. Every pirate knew the smaller tricks to break a man, as well as the more brutal.
Indeed, it was the more brutal that Alexander was afraid of.
“Connor, how abouts you beat ‘im up a bit, then let me take ‘im away?” Alexander peered sideways, ever hopeful.
The other pirate captain stood up, the fingers of one hand teasing the lace around his neck, while the other caressed the knife at his belt. “Alexander, why are ye wanting to be away so quick?”
“Connor, I want to savour the Admiral. I want to have ‘im close by, in me own lock-up, nice and handy for any time I might want to play with ‘im.”
Standing at Thomas’s side, O’Connell gave his body a push that set him swinging again. “You could play with the bastard here?”
“Like I said, mate, I don’t. Not in public.”
“Torture is an art, Alexander. You should share your expertise.”
“It’s also bloody personal. No, thanks all the same, Connor.”
A hand abruptly stilled Thomas’s body, and he groaned softly, his head falling back. “Alexander, there’s one of you and oh, lots o’ us.” O’Connell was smiling. “See? If I was wicked, and against the code – which I’m not! – I could simply slit your throat, take the jewels and just do what I wanted to the pretty here. What about that then?”
In the sudden quiet, Alexander stood up. All the crew were watching. Some had taken a pace closer to him. Nerves prickled down his spine, and he knew he was sweating.
“Connor…” There, sweet and wheedling. Harmless and drunk. Alexander smiled and shrugged, gesturing widely, rum sloshing in the almost empty bottle he still clasped in one hand. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might. I’m bored, Alexander. And I want to see you entertain me.” O’Connell’s hand stroked down the pale length of Thomas’s chest. It slowed over his belly, just where the bruising was deepest. He pressed - like a physician examining a wound - and grinned when his captive jerked in pain. “See, James here needs to tell me something, and I’m not letting ‘im go until he does. And I think it’d be sweet to see you make him tell me. Sort of save us the trouble. Me mother always said I was terrible lazy – guess she was right after all.”
“You’re heartless, Connor, all the pirate tales say so.” Alexander sighed. “And just because of that I reckon yout truly could snaffle the jewels and slit me throat. And I reckon you might be heartless enough to still slit me throat even after I’ve got your information. So, even if I do what ye want, what’s to say ye’ll let me go then?”
There was a pause while they all worked out the meaning in the words, and then a murmur of agreement went around the room. Alexander propped his fists on his hips and nodded emphatically. O’Connell smiled slyly. “I keep my word as a pirate, Alexander, ye knows that. You just neglected to make sure we had an accord over your Admiral there. But, for the record, I’ll let ye go - both of ye - if the bastard tells me which one aided ‘im.”
“An accord, then?”
“Aye.”
Taking a few steps forward, Alexander spat in his hand and offered it to O’Connell. They shook, and Alexander smiled his sweetest smile and considered himself to be the most righteous man in the room.
Apart from the one in ropes, of course.
Turning, he grabbed a fresh bottle and drank deep, before walking over to Thomas. “So,” he asked over his shoulder, “what d’you expect me to do with ‘im?”
“You’re a pirate, Alexander, what does ye normally do to get truth from your prisoners?”
“I normally dangle ‘em over a nice shark infested bay, mate, and that ain’t an option ‘ere!”
“True enough.” O’Connell stretched out his long legs, and crossed one booted ankle over the other, for all the world like a man at his fireside. “No sharks here. But you could burn ‘im a bit? Or flog ‘im.”
This raised a small shout of enthusiasm from the assembled group. Alexander peered at the hanging man. “Looks to me as if you’ve already done that.”
O’Connell waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that was an age ago.”
“Still… wouldn’t like to be repetitive now.” Alexander walked all around, touching pale skin here, a bruise there. When he ran his hand down the ladder of weals on the long back, Thomas shuddered, but kept his silence. “And the Admiral here would like something different, wouldn’t you?”
There was no reply.
“Ah, James, me dear, you’ll have to talk you know. Connor there is very determined.”
With a visible effort, Thomas lifted his head and stared at Alexander. When he spoke his voice was strained. “No one helped me. I escaped alone.”
“See, Connor, what if’n he’s telling the truth?”
“He’s not. Brand him, Cruise. The smell of your own skin burning oft loosens the tongue. Boys, get the fire lit!” His men cheered and suddenly the room was in commotion.
Alexander could feel any slight control of the situation he’d had slipping from his grasp. “But Connor, you said I could do what I wanted?”
“And you can’t make up your mind.” Standing, O’Connell scratched at his beard and stared hard into Alexander’s eyes. “Besides, a little branding will be amusing – even if by then the bastard has told us the truth.”
Alexander felt the brand on his own arm itch. It had been bad enough, but not too appalling. James would survive it too – better that than to be flogged again or burned as he had before. “Good idea, mate! How about I go and find something to use.”
“You do that.” O’Connell tossed the bottle he was holding into a far corner, where it bounced then rolled. He pulled another from a crate and pulled the cork with his teeth before spitting it away. “We’ll have a little fun here while you’re gone. Ye’ve turned into a dull dog, Alexander Cruise, an’ I’m heartily disappointed.”
Bristling indignantly, Alexander raised his brows and gave an ironic bow. “My apologies. I’ll do me best to make it up to you.”
“Good.” And O’Connell walked away, shouting at his men.
Alexander looked out of the windows and realised it was almost evening. They’d been back for hours, but still the time was crawling. He needed darkness, night, shadows and secrets. The Siren was coming in - and hopefully going back out again - on the morning tide. If he could get them away and hidden until AnaMaria sent the boat to fetch them, it would all be fine. It would. But there were so many obstacles between this and there. Not the least being the fact that Thomas was naked, bound and surrounded by men intent on something a teensy bit less polite than a vicarage tea-party.
Slowly, casually, he wandered back to Thomas’s side. “Admiral, please. Why don’t you just tell the nice pirate what ‘e wants to know?” Alexander smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”
“I can’t.” The fine features were pinched, and his skin was ghostly under the marks and welts. His eyes, though blown with pain, were steady.
“Shame.” Alexander tried wheedling. “If you did, we could be away, you know that?”
“Free. Yes, but I would be without honour.”
“Ah. Pesky, that.”
It seemed that Thomas almost laughed, though instead he choked back the bitter sound and lowered his chin onto his chest. “Leave me be, Alexander Cruise.”
Rings sparkling in the firelight, Alexander reached forward and lifted Thomas’s head, his hand cupped under the set jaw. “Why should I do that?”
The dilated eyes were narrowed, darkly confused. “I don’t know. Please…” He was speaking as if they were alone.
Caught in the deep green depths, suddenly Alexander wanted to hold him, to cut the ropes that bound him, to keep him safe. The feeling was intense, almost overwhelming both sense and caution. He took a deep breath, and firmly reminded himself where they were - and what act he was playing. Letting go of the Admiral’s face, he stepped back. Thomas’s despairing eyes followed him. When he opened his mouth, the word ‘Alexander’ was there on his lips, about to be voiced. Cruise slapped him, hard.
He couldn’t forget, not for a moment.
He turned, ignoring the blood that dripped down Thomas’s heaving chest. He sighed quietly, and blessed their fortune, for O’Connell was watching the fire being built up in the wide grate. The rest of his crew were laughing, telling wild stories of tortures endured or witnessed. No one had looked carefully enough to notice. Mentally, Alexander saluted the mystifying power of rum.
He scanned around, thankful there were no fire-irons to hand. Then, ignored by everyone, he walked out of the room.
::::
Chapter 10
Where was a plan when he needed one? Or even a few nice Marines with weapons loaded and no compunctions about how they dealt with pirates. He’d kiss Gillette if he turned up now. He’d even thank Governor Swan all proper and gentlemanly. But they were unlikely to appear out of nowhere. Which meant he was on his own. Again. Though this time he couldn’t just run, he had a rescue to effect.
And a branding to do.
Gods. He breathed out hard, his chest tight. He knew he could do it, but it would be hard to act the pleasure that O’Connell would undoubtedly expect. Shaking his head he pushed the distracting thoughts aside. The hall was oval, with doors leading off and a graceful staircase leading upwards. Taking the wide stairs two at a time, and avoiding the detritus of bottles and clothing that littered them, he searched, needing to find something. Something that would make O’Connell focus on the branding and not on finding other, more sophisticated amusements. And Alexander needed inspiration, for there was no telling what Connor’s band of merry men might do to Thomas while he was away.
The stairs opened onto a long corridor, lined with doors. Pushing them open one after another he found room upon room of plunder. Silks and jewels, gold and plate, all piled haphazardly high. One room was just filled with furniture stacked up to the ceiling, another was filled with paintings. Nothing leapt out as being suitable as a branding iron.
Where would it be? Bedrooms, garden, kitchen. Kitchen! Yes, oh yes, and he was heading the wrong way. Pausing only long enough to slip a perfect emerald ring into his pocket, he cursed himself and ran lightly back the way he had come. In the hall he pushed open a door, thankful that he had it right and that it appeared to lead to what once had been the servants’ area.
In the kitchen, the remains of a fire glowed sullenly in the wide grate, and the carcass of a spit-roasted goat desultorily dripped oil into the embers, each drip sparking a small flame. Alexander passed it by, slightly queasy at the smell of scorched meat, to search a shelf of implements – discarding them in turn as each failed to be what he was searching for. Skewers, tongs, something strange, something stranger, a long-handled grill-thingy (which would make a nice pattern, though James might not appreciate it so), more skewers. Dammit, nothing!
He turned, and looked back at the fire. There was a poker, not wide ended, and…there, perfect – a long iron scraper for cleaning ashes. With a dance of delight he picked it up. It was heavy, the oblong end flat enough, and about eight inches wide. Then he imagined it pressed to his own flesh. His gut roiled in reaction and he stilled.
Heaven. Could he really do this?
Yes. It was only to save Thomas’s life! The brand would scar, but no one would see. It would be a memory, that was all.
A memory of Alexander torturing him. But, surely, Thomas was more discerning than that. He’d understand the why. Wouldn’t he?
He’d have to. The same way they both had to get away. For Alexander was certain he had a destiny with Thomas. A destiny unlike anything he had felt with anyone or anything besides The Swift Siren . For the first time he actually wanted something, other than just to see the next horizon and to dance, with the sea-breeze wild in his hair.
To do that, to get there (not to the dancing but to his destiny) he needed Thomas alive, well (or at least mendable) and not too bitter about what Alexander had done to him.
Firelight caught at his rings as he turned the dull iron in his hands. Crude and cruel. Necessary. This – then they could walk away.
It was a devil’s bargain. But any bargain was better than none. Was it not?
Wiping sweat from his face, Alexander straightened his shoulders. There was only one way to find out.
The implement clutched in his hand, he walked out of the kitchen and headed back up the stairs.
There was laughter echoing out of the room where they held Thomas. Chilled, suddenly very wary, Alexander paced softly to the door. Carefully he eased it open, though he needn’t have bothered being silent. The room was in uproar. The men were a circle around Thomas and they were clapping, cheering and shouting as they took it in turns to torment the hanging man.
So much for accord and bargain. Alexander hissed a curse under his breath, frantically wondering what to do. They wouldn’t stop now. Not with O’Connell egging them on – foul and treacherous bastard that he was. Peering further into the room, skin prickling with dread, Alexander saw one of the men turn, his hands cupping the arousal that swelled his breeches.
Shock slammed him back against the wall, and he took a long, shuddering breath. Fury burned in him so bright that the world pulsed red - fury and a wild fear that Thomas would not survive this. And that if he did, he wouldn’t be the man Alexander loved.
Loved?
Oh, sweet gods it was truth. But not now, not now. He couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. He had to act. There had to be something, some way out of this. Eyes closed, he thought for a second, then ran for the stairs. He picked up a torn skirt and two of the broken pieces of banister. Then, fast as he could, he went back to the kitchens.
He tossed his plunder onto the vast kitchen table, and started ripping the skirt into strips. His fingers were clumsy, and he poured curses on himself as he worked, winding the fabric around the broken ends of the wood, building it thick and tight, the layers overlapping, needing it to last. With one done he started on the other, feverish in his haste. When it, too, was ready, he took a bottle of rum and soaked both lots of fabric with spirit. Now he had two torches. He held one to the fire, his eyes narrowed and intent as it lit with an intense flare of brightness. Alexander bared his teeth in pleasure.
And looked up to see a figure in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a torch, just as it looks.” Alexander straightened warily, the torch flaming in his hand. The figure stepped towards him and he saw it was the lad. The one who had helped Thomas escape before. He looked remarkably small and frightened for one of O’Connell’s crew.
“Why?” He also asked stupid questions.
Alexander shrugged. “Because I’m going to burn the house down.”
“Oh.” He was about fifteen, dark-skinned, underfed.
“Ye helped Thomas, didn’t ye?” There was no answer, but the boy looked very wary. “Look, I’m on his side. I know ye tried, ‘e told me there was on
e. Was it you?” A nod, short and sharp. Alexander sighed. “Good man. I’m going to get him away now. And if I were you, I’d run before Connor finds out, as he’ll be in a sore temper.”
Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the boy nodded. “You need any help?”
“No, we’ll be fine.” But it was a kind offer, and one the child clearly meant. Alexander warmed to him. “Listen – get yourself to Port Wiley. Ask at the Saracen’s Head for Alexander Cruise. If you make it, I’ll see about taking ye on as crew?”
“Aye! And… thank ye, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Adebayo Smith.”
“Good name. Now run!” The boy bolted.
Alexander grinned. Then sobered as he considered his task. There were too many maybes. But this was still the only chance that he could see.
Tucking the unlit torch under his arm, he picked up a last strip of the cotton and, sousing it in water, draped it around his neck. It was time. Decision made, he went, flaming torch in hand, running fast and light back up through the house to the rooms full of stolen treasure.
He fired anything that would burn, working his way from one side of the house to the other. In the dry heat everything went up like tinder. Working feverishly he torched furnishings in one room, a thousand pounds worth of silk in another, even the paintings. As one torch died, he lit the other, and put the flame to anything he thought might catch fire until he was wreathed in smoke and staring at a vision of Hell.
Standing at the end of the hallway, he surveyed his work, waiting out the space of twenty heartbeats until there was no doubt that the house was well and truly ablaze.
