The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  “But…will that not invite a battle? The Irish will not like our brazenness so close to their port.”

  Ernesto swallowed down the desire to place his fist in Carlos’ face—no one second guessed him! No one! But he couldn’t go about dispatching with his men. With so many gone on the absent ships, he needed all he had left. It would take twenty men to sail La Luna y Mar, and that would leave six on the docks and another six guards in the castillo proper.

  It would be a great risk to him, but what did his life matter if he lost Esperanza? She was his everything, she was his key to paradise on earth, and he refused to give her up now.

  “You will do as I command or I will hang you and each man on your crew from the cliffs so the sea birds can peck out your soft parts while you still breathe.” Again, he smiled at Carlos, but this smile was oozing with malice.

  Stiffening, Carlos pulled away from Ernesto, eyed him with flashes of anger and hatred in his eyes, but then said, “Your command, Comandante,” before turning and leaving the room. Ernesto knew he was losing favor with the men, that they weren’t pleased with the lack of plunder to split amongst them. In the beginning, he’d thought that taking on the name of a feared and respected faction would provide him the connections and money he needed to build for himself an empire. But now, after years of lying and cheating and stealing, Santiago Fernandez had finally gotten tired of his name being bandied about in regard to failed raids, pillaging of coastal towns, and the smuggling of children. His presence in the Irish Sea was telling of his intent to discover who was maligning his reputation. The pompous, religious bastard.

  Apparently, the true head of the Demonios de Mar had a moral code, one Ernesto didn’t share. But that wouldn’t matter soon enough; he only needed to wait another twenty days…

  He dropped his smile and moved to his desk where several sea charts were spread out. Beside the sea charts were land maps of southern Spain, Pozoblanco. Rich farm land, exquisite vineyards, fresh water, grazing land for livestock, and estates boasting more wealth than he could ever hope to attain on his own. And that was why he’d stolen his most precious possession. And that was why he needed to get her back.

  “Oh, Esperanza, mi amo, you should not have run. For I will chase you, and I will make you wish you had died.”

  Chapter Ten

  Saban watched Essa as she slowly took in all she could see, her breath catching. She raised her unbandaged hand to her mouth to muffle her whimpers.

  After her request to see his home, he’d helped her to her feet—though it took all his will to not crush her against him and taste her lips again—and she’d asked to see inside one of the buildings. So, he’d taken her to the one that would offer her the best view of the Ganwyd o’r Mor, Lucia’s makeshift apothecary.

  And what Essa saw were the medicaments in bottles along a shelf, the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, the pot over the fire heating up water to use in cleaning wounds…and the cots where four of the men wounded during the raid were lying, bandages covering the limbs, torsos, or heads, their bodies slick with sweat from their broken fevers. Beside the men, their wives sat on stools, bending over them to wipe their foreheads or hold their hands or murmur words of love and encouragement to them.

  This…this was the Ganwyd o’r Mor. A family.

  “Saban,” a weary and ragged looking Lucia called in surprise. “Have you brought your captive to see her handiwork?”

  Essa gasped, a choked curse falling from her lips.

  “This was not me. I did not hurt these men,” she insisted, her brown eyes bright with—dare he think it?—unshed tears.

  He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he watched her watching Lucia work. She intently observed as Lucia moved from cot to cot, checking wounds, speaking in hushed tones to the wives, and offering water or food. As he studied Essa’s face, he realized something he probably shouldn’t have.

  I can watch her forever.

  Her face was beautiful, her dark eyebrows perfect black arches over her wide eyes. Her lips were open in shock and disbelief, and he wanted to kiss away her fears and uncertainty. She was small—most women were small compared to his six-foot-four—but she wasn’t overly plump like most smaller women were. She was curvy, surprisingly toned in leg and arm, as though she spent much time moving. No…Essa wasn’t a layabout. Then again…she didn’t seem the kind to work, either. There was an air of untouchability about her, as though she thought herself above honest labor, like a noblewoman or princess.

  A pirate princess. He wanted to laugh. He, a self-proclaimed pirate king, a Brenin of the Welsh pirate faction, had captured himself a pirate princess. He wondered what she’d think about that.

  “These men…” Essa murmured, her voice barely audible. “They were on the Torriwr?”

  Saban nodded. “Aye.”

  He watched her swallow, and it looked like it took some effort.

  “Were there many dead?” she asked, hesitantly.

  He eyed her, wondering what she was thinking, feeling. Would she show remorse for the lives lost, or would she smile in glee at a few less Welshmen in the world?

  “Nay, none were lost.” She noticeably relaxed, letting out a sigh. “None of the Ganwyd o’r Mor were lost.” He knew it was cruel to remind her that she was the only remaining member of the crew that raided that night. But he needed to see her reaction—wanted to see the truth exhibited on her face.

  She flinched as if he’d hit her then. She slowly turned toward him, her eyes dark and flashing black fire.

  “You need not remind me that your men killed every last one of the Demonios crew. I was there. I saw the skewered bodies—I will never forget the sight of blood and lifeless eyes for as long as I live,” she grated. She wrapped her good arm around herself and shuddered.

  God, that need to envelope her in his arms and battle her demons for her was as unexpected as her next words.

  “Every man of La Corona was willing to die…”

  All his thoughts centered on what she’d just said.

  “La Corona? What are you talking about?” he ground out, taking her arm and pulling her into the corner of the cottage, furthest away from the wounded. “It was the Santa Maria I saw the night my men were ambushed and killed, and that night of the raid, as well.”

  Shock registered on her face. “What ambush?”

  He sneered and a mocking laugh burst from his chest, but died quickly.

  “The ambush that cost me two men—two friends, and nearly killed another. The ambush that came after I spotted the Santa Maria sailing in on a storm, hoping to hide themselves like the cowards they are.” He knew she would count herself among the crew but, right now, he was beyond caring. The deaths of Rickets and Bends was still fresh, like a still open gut wound that hadn’t even begun to heal.

  Essa seemed to recoil, her eyes widening and then narrowing as her thoughts seemed to churn in her head.

  “La Corona used the storm surge to ride into the bay quickly, as well as the dark clouds and high waters to hide their approach. I know that because I overheard the captain, Noriega, speak his plan to the first mate, Pedro.”

  Saban pushed his fingers through his hair, trying to understand what was unfurling just out of reach.

  “Captain Noriega? The captain of the Santa Maria is Santiago Fernandez, the leader of the Demonios de Mar.”

  She scoffed, curling her lips. “You lie. The leader of the Demonios de Mar is Ernesto Fernandez, and the ship that carried me and the rest of the crew to Wales was La Corona. You think I would not know the name of the ship I was on for four days?” She thrust her chin into the air and dared him to tell her different.

  And so he would.

  “Who told you this Ernesto was the leader of the Demonios?” he asked, watching her expression for any signs of deception. From the beginning of their little battle of wills, Essa had yet to tell a lie, he knew that because there wasn’t a modicum of untruth in her expressions. She hid nothing—not her fears, her th
oughts, her wariness, her uncertainty, and especially not her desire for him. Reading her was as easy as reading the stars.

  “Why does it matter who told me? It is the truth,” she spat.

  He arched an eyebrow, staring pointedly at her eyes. No, it wasn’t the truth, but she didn’t know that.

  “It would not be the same one who told you about our orgies and child torture, would it?”

  At the look of horrific realization on her face, he knew he had her.

  “It was, was it not?”

  She didn’t speak, only nodded, her hand pressed to her neck. Her skin had lost some of its golden-brown luster.

  “The leader of the Demonios de Mar is Santiago Fernandez. He has been the head of the Spanish faction for as long as I can remember. He is tall, thin, with dark eyes, and a sneer.”

  The hand at her throat trembled.

  He continued, metering each word. “The ship you arrived on…it looked too much like the Santa Maria to be coincidence—hell, I even mistook it for the Santa Maria the night my men were killed.”

  “Pedro…” she whimpered. “Pedro. Several nights before the raid, we came into the bay. Pedro got off and rowed a boat to land. Noriega did not tell anyone why Pedro had gone ashore, and no one asked. He answers directly to Ernesto.” He didn’t miss how she hesitated before speaking that name.

  “What are you saying?” he asked, the pieces beginning to fall together in his mind.

  She blinked, a starkness draining the light from her eyes. “I think…I think Pedro was sent to land to scout for your location—for the location of Dwyn Twll.”

  “And you think he waited for someone to appear…and then tried to kill us?” He couldn’t stop the deep, angry growl in his voice.

  Her face grew paler, but she didn’t back down.

  “Si. When Pedro returned, he was carrying something…a crossbow, and he immediately went into the captain’s quarters. After that, Noriega ordered the ship back out to sea, where we remained until the raid.”

  Everything she was saying was another slashing wound to his chest.

  Aye, the man Pedro had been responsible for the deaths of two good men—men with wives and children. Men he had to bury too soon.

  “This Pedro,” he spat the name, “was he part of the raid?”

  Her brow furrowed in thought, and then she finally said, “I do not think so…he was the captain’s first mate. He would remain with the ship. And once the raid failed, Noriega would order the ship back to our port of call.”

  Before he knew it, he held her jaw in his hand. He was peering down into eyes so full of fear and confusion, it nearly made him cry out.

  “Where is the port of call?” he ground out. “Where does this Fernandez imposter command these ships from?”

  He could see the flicker of something he couldn’t catch before it disappeared.

  “I…I cannot tell you that,” she answered, her voice growing firm.

  He gripped her jaw until his knuckles turned white. She tried pulling away, cries of distress rising into her throat.

  “Cannot or will not, Esperanza?”

  She held his gaze but did not answer. He didn’t know whether to be proud of her gumption or angry about her refusal to answer him.

  He leaned in until he could feel her ragged, shallow breaths on his cheeks.

  “I do not know anything about this foolhardy Ernesto Fernandez, I do not know why he has chosen to lie about being the Demonios leader, or why he built a ship that could be the Santa Maria’s twin, but I do know that Santiago Fernandez does not take such insults lightly. I assure you, Essa, whoever this Fernandez imposter is, he will die.”

  It couldn’t be…

  Essa stared blankly across the large cavern from where she was sitting on a stool just outside the cottage where her world had fallen to pieces.

  Most everything her brother had said about the Ganwyd o’r Mor…about himself as head of the Demonios de Mar, about his standing in the faction…what else had he lied about?

  For as long as she could remember, her brother had seemed larger than life, a hero, a true leader among men. He’d always worn the best clothing, the shiniest boots, and had an air of command about him. And his eyes…when he was commanding his men, or punishing those who committed wrongs against him, his eyes were cold, like black ice in a familiar face. But, when his gaze was upon her, it was filled with warmth and concern, and as she had grown older…his gaze had turned hooded, as if he were hiding something from her. She’d written it off, thinking it was just him keeping the worst parts of his duty as the faction leader away from her—as an older brother would. She thought that all his warnings about the Welshmen—and sometimes the French and Scottish—were meant to emphasize his own…importance. They were evil, he was good. They were scoundrels, he was a gentleman. They killed innocent women, he protected his only family from all harm.

  But now…she wondered what else he’d been hiding from her.

  Her body numb, her thoughts like bilge water, she didn’t—couldn’t—understand what was going on. She only knew that Saban Rees had shown her something she’d never thought to see, that the Ganwyd o’r Mor weren’t her enemy, at least they hadn’t been before she’d boarded their ship to raid it.

  And that raid had killed good men who did not deserve to be used as fodder in whatever war her brother was waging.

  I do not understand! Why would a man who is not a Demonios de Mar target the Ganwyd o’r Mor? What had occurred to turn Ernesto into what could only be called a madman?

  Perhaps…she could ask Saban. She glanced up through her lashes, spying the man she couldn’t get out of her mind.

  Saban was standing with three other men—well, one was dressed as a man, but the curvy globes of breasts Essa had seen told her that at least one of them was a woman in leather breeches. A woman with long red hair. From where Essa was sitting, she could see Saban and Saban could see her, and even when she wasn’t looking at him, she knew he was looking at her. Always, his eyes were on her, assessing her, wondering if she were truly as ignorant as she’d claimed. He didn’t know it—couldn’t know it—but she was just as lost as he was.

  From beside her, the sounds of small feet approached. Sighing, she turned to see two heads popping out from around the corner of the cottage. She couldn’t help it, she laughed, waving them over.

  Two little girls scrambled over, their lovely faces were glowing and flushed, and their eyes were wide with curiosity. She understood why. Now that she had seen it with her own eyes, she could easily believe that captives were not usual visitors to Dwyn Twll. She was probably the first…and she hated how strange that made her feel.

  “Hello,” she said, reaching out with her good hand to run her hand along the first girl’s arm. “You do not need to be afraid of me. I will not hurt you.”

  The first little girl, with bright blue eyes, tipped her head to the side.

  “Pam ddylen ni ofni ichi? Nid Saban.”

  Dios. She should have figured they wouldn’t understand—

  “They understand you, they just have not learned to speak the northerner’s English.” Essa didn’t recognize the voice, and the edge in his tone felt like someone scrubbed the flesh of her arms with wet sand.

  Straightening her shoulders, she turned only her head. The man was beautiful, with his long, blonde hair, his breathtaking green eyes, and a face made of perfect angles. From his eyes, she had no doubt he was a relation to Saban…and he looked much like Lucia.

  “You are her brother?” she asked unthinking. The man, who seemed stunned that she would speak to him at all, only lifted a pale eyebrow. His lips quirked, and she asked, “Lucia is your sister, no?”

  Finally, the man smiled at the little girls, produced a small coin from a pouch at his side, then waved off the children who hurried away, chattering in Welsh and waving the coin around excitedly. He crouched before her, hanging his hands between his spread knees. His thighs were muscular but lean, and he was tall, bu
t not as tall as Saban. Overall, she could see the resemblance in the eyes, but that was where the resemblance stopped. Saban was larger, demanded more attention, and there was something about Saban Rees that made the area between her thighs warm, wet, and achy.

  “Aye, Lucia is my sister. My twin,” the man answered. “And who are you that you would even speak to me as though I owe you my attention?” The man’s voice wasn’t mocking, but she could tell he honestly believed himself above her.

  She sniffed. “I am a child of God. Do I not deserve the same consideration as that child?” She pinned him with her best imperious glare and he did something that shocked her: he laughed.

  He threw his head back and laughed so loudly the people across the cavern all turned to look. Essa could feel Saban’s total focus land on her, the intensity of it blasting heat through her like a cannon.

  She shook off the sensation.

  “I do not see what is humorous about that,” she drawled, pursing her lips.

  The man’s laughter eventually died down, and his discerning and dissecting gaze landed on her and stayed.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  She saw no reason not to answer. “Essa.”

  “Why were you with the crew of the Santa Maria?” A sick twist in her gut made her wince. “What?”

  She swallowed the bile gathering in her mouth. “It was not the Santa Maria,” she admitted.

  That made the man’s eyes shoot into his hairline.

  “Oh? According to Saban, it was the Santa Maria that anchored in the bay and sent men to kill two of our friends.”

  Essa could hear the derision and hatred in his voice…but it wasn’t directed at her. That, too, was a surprise.

  “It was La Corona, a ship captained by Filip Noriega, and commissioned by a man named Ernesto Fernandez,” she admitted, momentarily wondering where her family loyalty had gone.

  It has gone the way of the truth—cast to the wind and swallowed by a gale. Her brother had lied to her for more than fifteen years, since she was old enough to sit still long enough to listen to his tales of the sea. His stories were what she looked forward to the most. She’d spent most of her days in her tower chambers, watching the sea rise and fall from her window. The world was moving and she was standing still, and no matter how often she begged Ernesto to allow her some freedom, even an unescorted stroll through the courtyard, he would claim he could not—for her protection. She would beg and plead, but he refused to give her what she craved the most, room to breathe, to think without someone else’s words in her ear, to see the ocean without a wall between them. To live outside of the turret room blanketed in furs and silks and suffocating with its silence and loneliness. It wasn’t until after she’d turned seventeen that she’d begun to realize that her brother’s stories had become in­creasing­ly…disturb­ing. He’d gone from tales of adventure to tales of horror—pinning every unforgiveable sin on the Welsh pirates.