Heart's Ransom

by Sara Reinke

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rafe spun the quarterstaff against his hand and approached his brother. Cristobal had not recognized him yet; in the dark blue, English naval coat their father had stowed in the wardrobe aboard El Verdad, with a tricorne pulled low on his brow, Rafe knew that he must have struck the same, terrifying figure swooping aboard the quarterdeck as John Ransom had the day he had killed their father.

  Cristobal backpedaled, his eyes flown wide, a pistol shoved against Kitty’s temple. Kitty had cried out to her father when he had first leapt aboard, but in the fleeting moments since, Rafe had watched swift changes cross her face, apparent in her wide, green eyes. She knows, he thought. Somehow, she realizes.

  He was weak yet. The act of swinging aboard La Venganza had left him nearly reeling, and he struggled to keep his feet beneath him, his gait steady and certain. If he wavered, if even for one flickering, fleeting moment, Cristobal sensed his weakness―his deception―it was over. Kitty was dead. By my life, Rafe thought, letting the quarterstaff complete its swift, sharp arc, coming to a comfortable, ready rest between his hands. I will not let that happen.

  “I will kill her!” Cristobal screeched, jerking Kitty closer to him. “Drop your staff now, or I will see her dead, Ransom! By God and all that is holy, I will!”

  Despite this shrill threat, he moved the pistol’s aim, training it in wavering, panicked fashion toward Rafe. It was more fortune than Rafe could have hoped for, and he seized upon it, shifting the quarterstaff in his grasp. “Kitty,” he said loudly, knowing that while it might take Cristobal a startled moment to recognize his voice, she would know it immediately. “Kitty―my left.”

  He hoped that she would remember; on the afternoon aboard El Verdad when he had taught her to dance, it had been a sort of joke between them, one he hoped remained in her mind. Apparently, it did, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth, she moved, cutting to the side, shoving her elbow back into Cristobal’s midriff for good measure to loosen his grasp against her hair.

  Cristobal whoofed for breath at the impact, caught off-guard, and Kitty staggered away from him, stumbling against the broken taffrail. Rafe did not grant him even a fleeting moment for recovery. He planted the end of the quarterstaff against the deck floor and used it as a fulcrum as he launched himself at his brother. He swung his legs up and out, punting Cristobal in the face with one boot heel, driving him back, and kicking the pistol loose of his grasp with the other. The gun went flying, skittering across the deck toward the mizzen mast, and Cristobal crashed onto his ass, stunned from the blow.

  Rafe lost his hat as his feet dropped to the ground again, but it no longer mattered. He turned, abandoning Cristobal and darting to Kitty. “Come with me,” he said, catching her by the hand. He would have to lead her down to the main deck, where planks had been lowered to bridge the narrow margin of space separating El Verdad and La Venganza. The crewmen were fighting furiously here, and he would likely need to forge a path for them through the fracas.

  Kitty, however, was too stunned to immediately move. At his touch, his beckon, she darted against him, throwing her arms around his neck in a sudden strangle-hold, staggering him. “Rafe!” she cried, her voice choked and muffled against the lapel of his greatcoat. “Rafe…I…I cannot…! How?”

  She lifted her face, loosening her grasp around his neck long enough to seize his face between her hands and kiss him deeply, fiercely. “Oh, God, you are alive,” she gasped, her voice tremulous with disbelief. “I thought you were dead. He…he told me…!”

  She kissed him again. There was no time for this, and he knew it, but for a moment, forgot himself, losing himself in her kiss. He moaned softly against her mouth, tangling his fingers in her auburn curls. “Kitty,” he breathed. “Kitty, we…we have to go…”

  He kissed her again, one last, fierce time and then stepped back, catching her by the hand. “We have to go,” he said again, and she nodded. “We have to move.”

  They ran together for the stairs leading down to the main deck, but Rafe skittered to an abrupt halt, with Kitty shied behind him, as three of Cristobal’s brawny crewman rushed up to the quarterdeck. The men may not have recognized Rafe’s face, but they recognized the blue greatcoat of an Englishman, and they spread out, each with swords in hand, squaring off against Rafe.

  “What is it?” Kitty whispered in breathless fright, clutching at Rafe’s coat sleeve. She could hear the footsteps as the men flanked them; her face darted toward each scuffling sound, her eyes flown wide.

  “Wait here for me,” Rafe said to her, stepping forward and gently dislodging himself from her grasp. He heard her frightened intake of breath in protest, but did not hesitate. He moved toward the men, drawing the quarterstaff to the ready between his hands.

  Two of the men charged Rafe at once, swords in hand. One swung his blade and Rafe blocked the blow with the length of his stave, kicking the sailor mightily in the belly to drive him back. He swung the quarterstaff toward the right, battering aside the other’s proffered sword thrust. He hooked his right arm forward, smashing the stave into the man’s jaw and sending him staggering back. When both reeled but refused to fall, Rafe again thrust the staff against the deck floor and swung his legs up, kicking each in turn squarely in the chin, toppling them.

  He turned to the crewmen remaining, and this time the man recognized his face. The sailor shrank back, his eyes enormous with sudden horror, and his sword dropped from his hand, clattering to the deck. “Madre de Dios!” he whispered, crossing himself over and over with a shaking hand. “Madre de Dios habe misericordia! Visito un aparición!” Mother of God have mercy! I see a ghost!

  Rafe did not need to take another step toward him; the crewman whirled and rushed back down the stairs toward the main deck, spilling ass over elbows in his frightened, frantic haste. “Es un aparición!” he shrieked in shocked, breathless terror. It is a ghost!

  “Rafe, behind you―!” Kitty cried out in sharp warning. Rafe heard the same heavy, rapid footsteps behind him that had alarmed her and started to turn, startled. Cristobal plowed into him, knocking him off of his feet and sending him crashing to the deck.

  Cristobal landed heavily atop him, crushing the breath from Rafe, and smashing against the bruised ribs caused by his brutal, repeated kicks in La Coruna. Rafe twisted beneath his brother’s weight, crying out hoarsely in pain, and Cristobal paused, straddling Rafe’s waist, his fist drawn back to punch him. Rafe watched as realization at last occurred to his brother, as Cristobal saw his face finally and in full. His eyes flew wide, his pallor draining abruptly ashen.

  “Madre de Dios!” he whispered. “It…it is not possible!”

  Rafe bucked his hips violently, sending new pain spearing through his injured ribs, but forcing Cristobal off balance, sending him crashing sideways to the floor. Rafe rolled, getting his knees beneath him and scrambling to his feet. He reached for his fallen quarterstaff, but just as his fingers settled against the shaft, Cristobal kicked it away from his reach. Rafe watched the stave skitter across the deck, smack against the broken taffrail and then disappear overboard between the missing sections of shattering railing.

  “I…I saw you die,” Cristobal seethed, limping to his feet. Blood poured from his nose, smeared against his lips and teeth from where Rafe had kicked him in the face. He turned his head, spitting blood against the ground, and his brows furrowed deeply. “I saw you die!” he screamed at Rafe.

  He launched himself at Rafe, his voice dissolving into furious, inarticulate howls. Weaponless, Rafe sidestepped him, waiting until Cristobal was almost immediately upon him and then gracefully pivoting, dancing out of his path. Cristobal stumbled, caught by surprise, and then wheeled about to face him again, his face twisted with murderous rage. He jerked a dagger loose from his belt and shoved it forward, pointing the tip at Rafe’s face.

  “I do not know how you survived Isabel’s poison, brother,” he hissed, his tone mocking and harsh at the word brother. “But I promise that you will not
survive me.”

  “Cristobal, please…” Rafe said, holding out his hands. He did not want to fight his brother. Despite everything that had happened, he still had some fragile hope that he could reason with Cristobal, that somehow, he might salvage some scrap of love left between them.

  Cristobal ignored his plea, rushing him once more. Again, Rafe danced back from his approach, and again, Cristobal floundered past him. This time, he caught himself against the taffrail. He dropped the dagger overboard at the impact and scuttled back in wide-eyed alarm as the splintered beams yielded at his weight. Just as he jerked away, the section of railing upon which he’d just leaned broke loose of its moorings and fell into the sea. Cristobal whirled toward Rafe, baring his fists.

  “Cristobal, stop―” Rafe began, but his brother plowed at him yet again, nearly crazed with fury now.

  Rafe sidestepped from his path. Cristobal stumbled, toppling to his knees, catching himself against the base of the mizzen mast. His shoulders shuddered and he heaved for breath.

  “Cristobal, please!” Rafe cried. “Please, whatever has happened, we can put it behind us! Just stop this, I beg you! Come home with me, please! Just come home with me, and we can―”

  Cristobal uttered a hoarse, piercing shriek, and wheeled about to face Rafe. He had found his fallen pistol on the floor by the mast and had taken it in hand again. This time, as he charged Rafe, he swung the pistol out ahead of him, aiming wildly for Rafe’s head. Before his finger could fully close against the trigger, Rafe grabbed his wrist, wrenching the barrel of the gun skyward. The two brothers danced clumsily together, grappling and struggling to claim the pistol.

  “I will see you dead!” Cristobal screamed, ramming his knee up into Rafe’s crotch, doubling him over in sudden, breathless agony. Rafe immediately stopped fighting and collapsed to his knees, gagging for air, clutching at his midriff. Cristobal shoved the barrel of the gun against Rafe’s ear, and Rafe was helpless to prevent him; he could not even summon enough breath to plead.

  “I will see you―” Cristobal began, and then Kitty launched herself at him from behind, pouncing against his back, locking her arms around his neck.

  “Leave him alone!” she cried, as Cristobal staggered backward and began shambling about in wild, clumsy circles. He struck at her with the pistol, clubbing her in the head, and tried desperately with his free hand to push, pull or pummel her from his back.

  “Get off of me, you bloody damn bitch!” he screamed, and then he stumbled against the remaining length of taffrail. It immediately yielded beneath his weight, cracking and splintering, and Cristobal and Kitty both cried out, their voices overlapping as the railing gave way, sending them tumbling overboard.

  Rafe watched in horror as both pitched over the stern and disappeared. “Kitty!” he shrieked, summoning some inner strength and resolve, forcing himself to his feet despite the crippling pain that wracked his groin. “Kitty! No!”

  He staggered to the broken taffrail. The railing had not fallen completely―not yet. It held to the deck by three slender, strained banisters. Rafe could hear the taxed wood groaning in protest; Kitty clung to the far end of the dangling section of railing, her hands wrapped tightly about the broken wood, her eyes wide with terror. Cristobal had caught her by the ankle and hung there, his feet pedaling wildly over the dark expanse of fog and sea beneath them.

  “Rafe!” Kitty screamed. “Rafe! Help me!”

  Rafe threw himself against the deck, leaning out as far as he could over the broken stern, stretching his arms out. “Kitty!” he cried. It was no use; she was too far to reach, and he did not dare ask her to try, not with her supporting both Cristobal’s weight and her own.

  “Rafe, help me!” she cried. “I…I am slipping! I cannot hold on!”

  The banisters creaked; one snapped in half, sending the broken section of railing to which Kitty desperately clung dropping another terrifying measure closer to the sea. Kitty wailed at this, and below her, Cristobal screamed.

  Rafe looked around desperately for something, anything he could use to reach them, but there was nothing. He shifted his weight, and as he did, he felt the open manacle he had tried to hide beneath the wide cuff of his greatcoat sleeve slip free. The chains rattled as the cuff dropped down toward Kitty, and Rafe’s eyes widened.

  “Kitty!” he cried, leaning out over the brink again. He inched forward, as far as he dared, holding his hand out to her, lowering the cuff toward her hand. He shook his arm mightily to make the chains rattle so that she could hear them and realize what―and where―it was. “Kitty, reach out with one hand! Take hold of the manacle cuff!”

  “I cannot!” she screamed, her voice shrill with fright. “Rafe, please! I cannot!”

  “Yes, you can,” he said, and he struggled to sound calm, to force the panic from his tone. She was drawing much of hers from him; he had to calm her enough to try and reason with her. “It will only be for the moment, and it is right here in front of you. Can you hear it? It is right here―just turn loose with one hand and reach for it.”

  He watched her fingers slip against the railing as she thought about letting go, but then her fright got the better of her, and she retightened her grip, blanching her knuckles white with the force of her effort. “I cannot!”

  Another rail snapped in twain, and again she mewled as the railing dropped another treacherous measure overboard. There was no time left; Rafe could hear the final beam groaning in strained protest. At any moment, it would yield.

  “Kitty, I will not let you fall,” he said. “With all that I have, I swear to you―I will not. Trust me. Please, Kitty.”

  She turned her face up to the sound of his voice. She hiccupped for frightened breath, but nodded, blinking against her tears. “A-alright,” she said. He shook the chains again to guide her, and she opened her left hand. Her face twisted as her right suddenly bore the tremendous strain of her weight, combined with Cristobal’s, and then she reached up, groping wildly, seizing the manacle cuff in hand. Her fingers wrapped fiercely about it, and then she turned loose of the railing in full and clasping both hands about the dangling manacle.

  Rafe felt the full and immediate pull of her weight, compounded by Cristobal’s, wrench against his arm, threatening to haul him overboard. He reached out blindly with his right hand, pawing the open air until he hooked a section of railing nearby that had yet to collapse. He felt it tremble beneath his desperate grasp, fragile and uncertain, but it held for the moment.

  “Kitty…!” he grunted, struggling unsuccessfully to pull against her, to draw her up to the deck. His tenuous grasp on the railing did not award him enough leverage. “Use your feet…kick against the ship…!”

  “What?” Kitty cried. He leaned forward, looking down into her upturned, frightened face.

  “Can you kick against the ship?” he said. “Kick the stern windows, the molding, anything! I…I cannot pull you up, not alone!” He looked past her, toward Cristobal. “Cristobal, for the love of God! Help us, or we will all fall!”

  Cristobal met his gaze, his face blood-smeared, his brows still furrowed. Somehow, he found it within himself to smile, a cold and cruel hook to his mouth, and Rafe felt his breath draw still in sudden, absolute horror.

  “Good,” Cristobal seethed. He clung to Kitty’s leg with one hand, but had managed to keep a desperate grasp on his pistol with the other. He raised this hand now, leveling the barrel of the gun at Rafe’s face. “At least I will take the both of you with me.”

  His hand slipped from Kitty’s ankle and his finger folded against the trigger, just as from Rafe’s right, the railing he had caught hold of splintered in his grasp. Rafe had a fleeting second to watch Cristobal fall away from them, plummeting toward the fog-draped sea below, and then he fell forward as the gun fired, the barrel of the pistol seeming to explode in a sudden, stinking cloud of smoke and sparks. Kitty screamed, her shrill voice rising above the resounding thunder of the gunshot, and Rafe felt tremendous pain sear through his ri
ght hand as the pellet―meant for his head―punched instead through the delta where his thumb and wrist met, and punched outward again through nearly the dead-center of his hand.

  He screamed as he fell, knowing the molten agony in his hand would be short-lived; he would either drown or die of hyperthermia in the dark Atlantic depths. I am sorry, Kitty, he thought as he fell. Oh, God, I am so sorry. I failed you anyway. I―

  He felt a strong hand catch him smartly by the back of his coat, snatching him abruptly backwards. More hands fell against him as several of his crewmen―Claudio first and foremost among them―hauled him back up onto the deck. He shuddered as he felt floorboards once more beneath his knees, and struggled to shove away from the men. “Kitty…!” he gasped. “Someone…please…!”

  He heard her cry out in hoarse relief, the chains between them slackening as she, too, was pulled to safety. He sat up and she fell against him, her arms flung about him. She cried out his name, bursting into tears, and he clung to her, clutching her near.

  “Are you hurt?” she said, her hands fluttering against his face in panic. “I heard a gunshot! Are you hurt?”

  “I am alright,” he whispered, pulling her against him, kissing her. He looked up at Claudio, into the smiling face of the man who had just saved his life again. “I am alright,” he said, closing his eyes and holding her.