by Sara Reinke
CHAPTER SIX
Rafe’s words hit Kitty with all of the shocking impact of a physical slap to her face. She blinked in stricken surprise and dismay, her mouth agape.
“My father was not a misbegotten pirate!” Rafe shouted. “He was a good man, an honest man. What do you know of Evarado Serrano Pelayo? Because of my father, the people of Santa Ponca, where I was born, had bread on their table and coins in their purses! Because of my father, the men of my village, who might have otherwise scraped pathetic lives from the sea with their nets, were able to provide for their families without worry! My father served the king of Spain―a sanctioned and certified privateer!”
He slapped his hand across the table, sending dishes flying. Kitty shied, frightened, as the porcelain plates and cups struck the bookshelves and floor, shattering. After this sudden clamor, there was silence; only the hiccupping sounds as she gasped for breath, and the heavy, ragged sound of Rafe’s own breathing punctuated the stillness.
“He lived five days after John Ransom shot him,” Rafe said at length, and she was startled anew to hear the anguished, choked quality of his voice, as if he struggled against tears. “The pellet did not kill him outright. The wound festered. He was bleeding from within, deep inside his lung. He lingered like that, with fever setting in, roasting in his own skin, drowning on his own blood for five days before it took him. He had been dead two weeks by the time word reached me in Madrid…another two besides before I returned to Mallorca. They had buried him at sea. I did not even get to tell him good-bye.”
She heard him sit heavily in his seat before the breakfast table again. He drew in a long, deep breath, composing himself. She remained rooted in spot, motionless, her eyes trained towards the sounds of him. When he stood again, the chain between them abruptly drew taut and she stumbled forward in clumsy tow as he marched her toward the bed. She was afraid then, more afraid than she had been yet in his company. She had pushed him too far, beyond even that scarce measure of courtesy he had shown her since her abduction. He will rape me now, she thought in terrified dismay. Oh, God, now he is going to force himself on me!
“Do not ever mention my father again.” Rafe clapped his hands against her shoulders, startling a quiet yelp from her, and then pushed her unceremoniously onto her rump against the mattress. “You do not know anything about him.”
Kitty cowered, hunching her shoulder toward her face as if flinching from a blow. “Please do not,” she whimpered. Her arm hurt from where he had grabbed her so roughly, and she waited for him to grab her again, to shove her back against the mattress and rip her clothes from her. She understood now. Rafe had no intention of ransoming her at all. She was bait, and no more; a lure in his plot to avenge his father’s death.
He is going to kill Daddy!
Rafe was quiet for a long moment, and then the manacle chain suddenly slackened. She heard the sound of his clothes rustling as he knelt in front of her, and she flinched. “Please do not hurt me.”
She heard Rafe open his wooden box of medical supplies. He clasped her by the foot and began to unwind her bandages with quick, angry tugs. “I am not going to hurt you, Catherine. I keep telling you that.”
“Please,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes, tangling in her throat. “Please do not hurt my father, either.”
Rafe paused at her tremulous plea, his hands falling still against her.
“My father is a good man, too,” Kitty said. “He did not mean to kill yours. He would be devastated to know. Your father shot him, too. He has suffered these past months recuperating from his wound.”
Rafe said nothing.
“You said your father served the king of Spain,” Kitty pleaded. “Mine serves the crown of England. Both of them did as were their duties, then. My father had no ill-will toward yours. Please…” Her voice warbled, on the verge of breaking. Her bottom lip trembled uncontrollably, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. She raised her hand, wiping it away, struggling to contain the rest.
“My father is all I have left. My mother died when I was a little girl, and I have no other family to speak of. You still have your brother, at least. Please.”
Rafe began to tend to her feet again, the movements of his cuffed hand tugging against hers. He said nothing more, and she blinked at him, stunned by the absolute callousness of his silence. He is as much a monster as his brother―more so, besides. At least his brother wears his brutality on his sleeve. He does not bother to disguise it with the pretense of manners and compassion.
The bed was still unmade, and Kitty stiffened in surprise when she draped her hand against the tangled bedclothes and felt something hard tucked among the folds―the scalpel. She strained her ears, trying to ascertain whether or not Rafe had noticed her discovery, but he remained otherwise occupied, applying more of his odious and so-called medicinal paste to the injured soles of her feet.
Kitty moved her hand slowly, inching beneath the covers. She curled her fingers about the slim, wooden handle of the scalpel, tucking it against her palm. Again, she listened carefully to make sure Rafe was preoccupied, and then she moved, sliding the scalpel with deliberate care beneath the pillow on her side of the bed. She did not dare try to use it at that moment; Rafe was awake and alert, strong enough to take it easily from her if she tried.
He got drunk last night, she thought. Maybe he will get drunk again this evening. He will drink himself to sleep, and then I will tell his rot damn brother to turn this ship for England, or I will cut his bloody throat open.
