From exploring these cliffs as a lad, he knew that this section of sea-wrought caves and shallow ravines curved to the right, ending abruptly just around the bend ahead. That meant that the man was close. Saban had no doubt the man was armed, probably a cutlass. But with or without a weapon, Saban knew he was the deadlier of the two. He had to be.
As if sensing the impending violence, the sky above him darkened, thick clouds slid over the moon. And now there was darkness everywhere.
Damn. Before, he was confident he could use the slivers of moonlight to stalk and capture the runaway Demonios, but that advantage had been lost in an instant. Realizing now that he should have brought at least one of his sabres and a length of rope with which to secure his intended captive, Saban halted his progress. He held his breath, his mind picking through his current predicament. He couldn’t go in there utterly blind; the Demonios cur might get the upper hand, then again…he could.
When did you become a whelpling, allowing the unknown to bind you?
Frustrated with his sudden lack of nerve, Saban took a step forward, then another, until he was moving forward through the ink-like stillness between the ravine walls.
“You cannot see…you do not know what danger lurks…” he drawled into the blackness. He didn’t know what drove him to taunt the man but he found that hearing the man’s quick intake of breath was incredibly satisfying.
Before Saban could take another step forward, the sounds of scrabbling returned. This time, though, they were immediately followed by the sound of falling rocks.
The fool! He would kill himself before Saban could do the deed.
A muffled cry echoed through the ravine and into Saban’s chest, making his heartbeat accelerate.
“Ho, Saban!” someone yelled from the other end of the passage.
“This way!” he yelled back and was unutterably grateful when he saw the glow of lantern light moving toward him. “Callet,” he called, knowing it was the bowsman, since Lucian would have stayed with the crew.
“Aye,” Callet replied, coming into view, the lantern held high over his head. “Ye be needin’ this, I ’spose.” The man’s lopsided grin showed several missing teeth, but Saban didn’t keep the man around for his looks.
“This way. I have the Demonios trapped ahead.” Saban indicated the area ahead of him and Callet held the lantern out to cast much needed light into the dark pocket at the end of the passage.
With the light, Saban moved ahead cautiously. Before, in the darkness, the man had cried out, which meant he might have been struck by a falling rock, but that didn’t mean he’d been incapacitated. As they drew closer, Saban spied a prone body near the farthest wall. The man wasn’t moving—if it was a full-grown man. The closer he got, the more he noticed that the man was small, slight, too slender.
“Tis a lad,” Callet blurted, speaking aloud Saban’s suspicions.
“Aye.”
“Damn the Demonios—bringin’ in babes to do their work. Tis a shame it is,” Callet grumbled. Bending down, Callet inspected the boy, flipping him onto his back.
A hiss left Saban’s throat. The lad was more than just young, he was…pretty.
Hell. Stricken by the thought of his finding the lad comely, Saban shook his head, grunting.
“He’s taken a hit to the brain box,” Callet informed him, and Saban crouched to see for himself. Sure enough, there was a slight bump growing from the side of the boy’s head. “I’ll carry him. He cannot be more than nine stone. Like a sack of sea foam.” Callet chuckled at his own wit, and gathered the boy to haul him over his shoulder. He stood, as did Saban.
“I was right. Sea foam.”
The walk back to the beach was slow going, but once they were there, Callet dropped the boy in the sand.
Taking the opportunity to bind the boy while he was still unconscious, Saban retrieved a rope from the skiff and bound the boy’s wrists and ankles.
“What do you plan to do with him?” Lucian asked, his calculating gaze scouring the captive, taking in much more than he would ever say aloud.
A choked cry made them all look down at their captive who had gone stiff.
“Seems he is finally awake,” Robbie remarked.
“Aye,” Callet replied.
“I will take him to the cottage at the mouth of the Marches. There is no one there for miles.” He gazed down at the lad, the urge to fill the boy with terror too much to resist. “No one to hear him scream.” The lad didn’t move so much as a muscle.
Hmmm…seems he has spirit. Saban’s mouth curled into a brutal grin. Spirit meant the lad had something to lose…and Saban would find great pleasure in breaking him.
“And what will you do with him then? He is naught but a boy,” Robbie remarked, his arms crossed over his chest, a bandage wrapped around his torso from where he’d been stabbed during the raid. Having, more or less, stumbled upon the Rees’ and their smuggling operation, Robbie knew nothing about how things were done or that no one questioned Saban lightly. He allowed Lucian some leniency because he and Saban had been together since nursing babes, but Robbie was an interloper—blood or no.
“Mind your own business, Cousin. Leave this lad to me. I will have him begging to spill his secrets before the night is over.” It was past the third watch, deep into the night, but Saban found that the fire pumping through his blood had lit something that wouldn’t allow him to rest.
Robbie clamped his mouth shut and turned on his heel to head back toward the gathered crew from the Seren Mor and the Torriwr. They were splitting the spoils they’d plucked from the still warm corpses of the Demonios. By now, the bodies were sunk to the bottom of the sea where the fish could lay their eggs in their bloated bellies.
“You should have more care with Robbie, Saban, he has only just come to us,” Lucian remarked, his blighted sense of mercy shining in his eyes. Though he was a right brutal bastard at the helm of the Seren Mor, he was usually the first to ask for mercy for those he considered worthy of it.
“I will show care when I can trust that he will not slide a blade between my shoulders.”
From beside him, Brendan grunted, uncrossing his massive arms to clasp the first of two blades at his hip. It was reflexive, the need to feel the sword in his palm. Saban was the same way; he hadn’t earned the moniker “the Sabre” because of his sharp good looks.
Chapter Two
Essa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing at the men gathered around her, staring down at her like she was a freshly-gutted deer they were planning to split between them.
Dios mío, I have become exactly what I feared.
All her planning and plotting, her preparations, and all the risks she took to get on that ship…and now she was a captive of the very men her brother hated.
The Ganwyd o’r Mor—bastards of the sea. Men who thought nothing of plundering and whoring and murdering. Bile rose into her mouth but she swallowed it down. Si, they already knew she was awake, but she’d be damned if she made another noise. No matter where they took her or how they threatened her.
“Take the lad but do not stay gone long,” one man said to the other. She fought the urge to laugh at them; they thought her a boy, just as she’d planned it. There was no chance that her brother’s men would have let her aboard the ship for the raiding party if they knew it was her—a woman, supposedly weak and in need of protecting. And not only that, the fools held the superstition that women on ships brought bad fortune.
Did you not? Before she’d jumped from the ship to run for her life, most of the men—her brother’s men—had fallen. She didn’t know how many of the men survived, if any, but she doubted that men like the Welsh smugglers would leave an enemy alive.
I am only alive because they think they can get me to betray the Demonios. They will quickly learn it would be better to slit my throat and be done with it.
“You think to order me, Lucian? I know what I am doing, and I know I must return to Dwyn Twll to split the ship’s spoils a
mong the men.” That man…she recognized his voice. He was the man who had chased her, pursuing her through the dark and trapping her. Though, she’d trapped herself with her utter lack of knowledge about the cliffs around the beach.
“I would never think to give you orders, Saban…I am simply reminding you of what the men are expecting,” the other man—Lucian—remarked, his tone marbled with exhaustion.
There was silence, then, “Go, get some rest. I will return by first light.”
Before Essa could prepare herself, she was lifted from the sand and deposited on a broad, hard shoulder.
“Callet was right…you are naught but sea foam.” The man’s deep voice rumbled, vibrating through her. Her breath caught at the sensation. “Fernandez is a fool, allowing such guppies to fight his battles for him. Tis cruel.” The man easily hefted her over his head, from one shoulder to the other, before wrapping his arm around her legs like a band of iron to hold her in place.
Such strength! She immediately hated that she admired anything about him. He was a dog, no better than a diseased wretch. A strong diseased wretch.
Essa bit her lip, refusing to let the grunts and moans of pain escape as he marched up the beach toward a thin path that led from the palisades to the ridge above them. She knew she shouldn’t appreciate the way his back muscles bunched and flexed as he moved, and she certainly shouldn’t be admiring the tautness of his backside in the black breeches he wore.
Focus, idiota! She forced herself to relax, feigning unconsciousness. Perhaps, once he’d transported her to where he meant to keep her prisoner, he would let his attention slip, just enough for her to work the rope around her ankle loose. Once her legs were free, it wouldn’t matter if her wrists were bound; she could still run. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t know how to get her wrists free…it would just take more time than she would have to escape.
At the top of the path, he continued on until she could hear the whinny of a horse. With as much ease as it took to lift her to his shoulder, he lifted her to toss her over the rump end of his horse. He used more rope to secure her supposedly unconscious form to the steed then climbed up himself. She couldn’t see anything from the angle at which she dangled, but she knew from her position that this ride would be a brutal one.
With a whoop, the man kicked his horse into a trot, and Essa felt every hoof beat right through her bones. She tried holding her breath but the constant battering against her belly forced the air out in ugly grunts. Soon, the bouncing took its toll on her neck and skull, the pain in both making her dizzy.
If this ride does not end soon—
She awoke in a sitting position. Her neck and head hurt like a tree had fallen on her. She groaned, blinking away what felt like grit in her eyes.
“Finally…I wondered if that ride had ruined my chances to get my answers,” a voice drawled from somewhere beside her. She didn’t bother opening her eyes; if she couldn’t see the strikes coming, she could better hide her fear. “I had not meant for it to be so rough…” A humorless chuckle followed. “I had wanted to save that for once I had you here.”
I will not open my eyes to see where here is! She pinched them shut tighter. He would have to pry her eyelids apart.
“Not going to speak? Not going to beg for your life or even spit in my face?” he taunted her. Si, she wanted to spit in his face—and gouge out his eyes. But more than anything, she wanted to survive whatever he planned. She wanted to escape to her brother and lead him back to wherever this was so that he could exact revenge on the man who killed so many of her brother’s hired men.
She remained silent, her ears alert, listening as the man moved about, his feet light—which was surprising for a man large enough to carry an unconscious body. Then he was there, crouching before her. She could feel his stare boring a hole into her, examining her features. What did he see? Could he tell she was a woman? Before donning the usual black clothing of the Demonios raiding party, she’d wrapped lengths of linen around her breasts. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been blessed with breasts as ample as a dock wench’s, fortunately, though, the handful-sized breasts she did have were easily hidden when wrapped in layers of cloth.
Hopefully, the man wouldn’t get the chance to discover the truth, otherwise…she shuddered, the thought of what a Ganwyd o’r Mor was capable of doing turned her blood to ice.
No! I will not let him violate me!
Stiffening under his exhaustive perusal, she bit back the litany of expletives she wanted to scream.
She needed to bide her time, using the patience she had learned while waiting for her brother to grant her an audience. She took a shallow breath and continued listening, waiting for him to speak again.
Finally, he let out an audible breath, like a sigh of disappointment.
“Not willing to even look your captor in the eyes then?” He chuckled again, and the hairs along the back of her neck stood on end…as did her nipples.
Damn! I must have beaten my brains to pulp! I am not attracted to this man—a man whose face I have not even seen. Not that it would even matter. He was her enemy, bent on torturing her for information. She would rather mate with a pig than let this man touch her.
He thinks you are a boy. But that gave little relief.
“Fine. I will leave you here to stew while I return to my men. I will gather supplies, a few days’ worth of food, and I will return. I plan to take my time with you. Pain is much better when inflicted slow and steady.”
She heard him stand then walk away. A door creaked open then shut. And his chuckle followed him, continuing to taunt her until the sounds of a rider galloping away filled her head.
Easing her eyes open, she blinked at the change in light. At first, she could only make out dark lumps and a window. But eventually, her vision cleared enough for her to see exactly where she was being kept.
She snorted. The man calling this a cottage had grossly overexaggerated. It was a hovel, with rough stone walls, a low thatched roof, a single door made of poorly cut wooden planks, and a dirt floor. There were barrels and empty crates lining two walls and the third wall, the one to her left, had a single cot. She tried to peer behind her but a sharp pain halted her movements, making her hiss.
Bowing her head to help stretch the burning muscles in her neck and upper shoulders, she took note of the fact that her feet were still bound at the ankles but not secured to the legs of the chair on which she sat. The man had the forethought to tie her hands behind her back through the slats in the back of the wooden chair, so she was secured to the chair.
At least he thought she was. A knowing smile lifted the sides of her mouth.
One thing she’d learned from sneaking down to the dock whenever she could get away was how to get free of ropes. She’d been caught and held on several occasions, the men thinking she was a spy because she’d been skulking about. Instead of sitting around and waiting for the men to discover her true identity, she’d untie herself and sneak back to the castillo with no one the wiser.
Sucking in a breath, Essa began to work at the ropes around her wrists. She had narrow wrists and slender hands and fingers, pulling herself free would take some doing without any sort of lubricant, but it could be done. Her wrists would be bloody, though.
It will not matter once I am free.
And so she worked. Sweat gathered along her back and beaded along her brow, sliding down her face to fall into her eyes. She blinked the sweat away, trying not to let the sting of the salt distract her from the task behind her back.
Her neck and shoulder muscles were burning as if on fire from the strain of holding them in place as she worked, and the muscles in her arms and hands were beginning to show fatigue.
Almost there…Essa grit her teeth, determination pounding through her blood. She had to get free! She could not be here with her captor returned. Escape and the unknown dangers of the unfamiliar land were preferable to that man and the unknown dangers he was concocting in his evil mind.
Sh
e shuddered again, her movements making the rope around her wrists tighten.
Dios mío! She let out a slow, calming breath. She needed to focus, not allow her thoughts to send her into a panic. She was a Fernandez—she would not be brought low by a savage masquerading as a man of the sea.
With that in mind, she forced her fingers and wrists to move despite the blood loss and the soreness and the blisters that the rubbing of the ropes was making.
Blisters heal.
Sending a silent prayer of deliverance to heaven, she cried out when the ropes gave way. But her cries of triumph stopped once the blood rushed into her hands. The pain was terrible. She gathered her hands into her chest, holding them there as she wiggled her fingers. Once the pain had died to a numb sort of burning ache, she examined her wrists. The flesh was raw, blistered, and bleeding.
Bending to the task of releasing her legs, she nearly missed the sound of an approaching horse in the distance.
No!
Her hands trembling, she barely got the ropes loose before she spied a rider on horseback coming into view. He was closing in, and she was losing time.
Kicking at the ropes, she stood, ignoring the pinch of her muscles as she moved. She rushed to the door, throwing it open.
The man’s bellow ripped through her; he had seen her. He was bent over his horse’s neck, his long, dark hair flying out behind him like a black banner.
Spurred into action, she ran from the cottage, not really knowing where to go only that she needed to get away. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, aiming for a grove of trees beside an outcropping of large, gray boulders. She could hide in there among the rocks…
She made it to the rocks just as the horse sped past the cottage, headed straight toward her.
Stop looking back! Move!
She hurried around the first boulder, nearly tripping over smaller rocks strewn about as if a giant had thrown a tantrum. Her chest burning from the exertion, she was shocked when a cry escaped as she slipped down a hidden embankment and into a fast-moving creek. It was just deep enough to get the whole of her wet but not deep enough to hide in.
The Savage Sabre Page 2
