by Merry Farmer
“Please,” snorted Mr. Evans. Rising, he bowed, extending his arms in a wide mocking gesture. “Of course, my Lord, is there anything else I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable?”
“No, that will be all.”
His mouth twitched. Leaning down, he rested his forearm on his knee, pinching Alana’s chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“You are extremely lucky the captain liked you, Mr. Dubois, or we would not be having this discussion. However, since he did request you as his manservant, I will ask him if he wishes to give you a reprieve. Wait here.” Laughing at his joke, he turned, ambling across the deck.
“Are you certain you want to do that?” murmured Mr. Parker.
“They are going to kill us,” Alana replied, her voice just as soft.
A melancholy smile touched his face. “That does not bother me; without Louisa, I am lost.”
“She could survive.” Alana’s voice rose hysterically. Why would Mr. Parker choose death? “She’s an excellent swimmer.”
“No.” His red-rimmed eyes glanced out at the dark ocean. “She didn’t want to come on this trip, said she had a terrible dream, begged me to stay in London for another fortnight, but I made her come with me.” Sighing, he turned back to Alana. “I should have listened.”
“You cannot give up hope.”
“Either she will drown, or she will burn to death. How can I live, knowing I caused my wife’s death?”
“This is not your fault.”
“Changed your mind, Mr. Dubois.” Captain Shaw’s chuckle carried across the moonlit deck. Alana’s head jerked up as he approached. Behind him, flames flickered in the darkness, incinerating the stern of the ship and slowly licking their way toward the bow. “I daresay you have the temperament of a woman.”
Alana jutted out her chin, glaring at him. “I didn’t realize you were going to shoot me.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.” He crouched beside her, trailing the muzzle of his pistol across the underside of her chin. “Mr. Evans is.”
“I would prefer that Mr. Evans didn’t shoot me.”
“You would prefer I shoot you instead?”
“No, I would prefer not to be killed.”
“You gave up that choice.”
“I did not. I asked what my other option was, and you offered to show me.”
“I did say that…” Captain Shaw rubbed his temple with the muzzle of the pistol, considering her statement. “I never break my word.”
“You’re a pirate,” scoffed Alana. “What good is your word?”
“Do not aggravate him, Mr. Dubois,” muttered Mr. Parker.
“You should listen to your friend,” growled Captain Shaw. “I would happily add another bruise to the growing collection on your face.”
Alana whimpered, shrinking away from him.
“That violence is not necessary,” said Mr. Parker, leaning his body against Alana in a comforting gesture.
Captain Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
Mr. Parker shook his head. “You don’t need my name; I have no intention of joining your crew.”
Arching an eyebrow, Captain Shaw glanced up at Mr. Evans.
“Have you explained the ramifications of refusing employ?”
“I know what choice I’ve made,” replied Mr. Parker, his strong voice carried across the deck.
“Please,” begged Alana, “think of your wife.”
“She’s already dead.” Mr. Evans dropped beside Captain Shaw, his sneer filled with malice. “I pushed her overboard myself.”
Was it possible to hear a man’s heart shatter? Mr. Parker’s face crumpled, a wounded howl tumbling from his lips. Was that the sound Thomas’ heart made when she refused his proposal? Her chest gave a tight squeeze, constricting until she could no longer breathe.
“I hope you hang from the gallows,” snarled Mr. Parker, snapping his teeth at Mr. Evans.
“If you have a grievance to settle with me, meet me in Hell.” Raising his pistol, Mr. Evans placed the muzzle to Mr. Parker’s head, pulling the trigger. Blood and bone sprayed the side of Alana’s face.
Captain Shaw twisted away, closing his eyes, revulsion on his face. When he turned back, a mask of stone had replaced the look of pity. Untying Mr. Parker’s wrists and lifting the body, Mr. Evans slogged to the side of the ship. With a grunt, he hefted the body over the side, dropping it into the darkness.
“Would anyone else like to join Mr…” Captain Shaw’s eyes flicked to Alana.
“Parker,” she replied, her gaze locked on his face, curiosity burning in her veins. She’d seen it, the fleeting moment of compassion. Was it possible the cruel Captain Shaw had a heart?
“Mr. Parker,” he nodded once. Rising, he stalked around the mast. “I give you two options, either join my crew or join Mr. Parker in a watery grave.”
One by one, each man gave his assent to join the pirate crew. When Captain Shaw reached Alana, he bent over. Extracting a handkerchief, he slid it down the side of her face, wiping away Mr. Parker’s blood. Folding the handkerchief, he tucked it back into his coat. “Have you made your decision, Mr. Dubois?”
“I will work for you.”
He leaned closer, his mouth almost touching hers. “Forever?”
“Until you die.” Alana narrowed her eyes.
Laughing, Captain Shaw straightened, turning his attention to Mr. Evans.
“Chain Mr. Dubois in my cabin.”
“Are you certain, Captain?” asked Mr. Evans, his black eyes dropping to Alana. “He seems to be a bit of trouble. We don’t want to bring any bad luck aboard.”
“Mr. Evans, are you questioning my mind?”
“No, Captain,” he replied instantly.
“Then do as I ordered.”
“Yes, Captain.” His malice filled eyes flicked over Alana.
This was going to be a problem…
Roughly grabbing his knife, he slid the blade across the ropes binding Alana to the mast, nicking a section of her skin. She winced, but held her tongue, glowering at him. With a grin, Mr. Evans yanked her to her feet, pulling her forward by her bound wrists. She stumbled, and he shoved her at another pirate with an exasperated growl.
“Mr. Wickes, this prisoner is assigned to the Captain’s cabin.” Sending Alana a final sneer, he turned his attention to the three men still bound to the mast.
Mr. Wickes caught Alana, spinning her around and marching her toward the railing, his large hands clamped over her arms, pinning them to her sides. Pointing at a small bamboo ladder connecting the two ships, he pushed her against the railing.
“Over you go.”
“I cannot climb with my hands lashed,” replied Alana. Her eyes flicked down. Pieces of wood and sail bobbed in the water, highlighted by the flames overwhelming the ship’s stern. Nor can I swim if I fall. However, she doubted this man, or any other aboard this ship, would care if she drowned.
“For your sake, I hope you figure it out,” he replied, lifting her easily and setting her on the opposite side of the railing.
Alana twisted around, wrapping her hands around the worn wood. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “I cannot.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” Captain Shaw’s deep voice rumbled.
Her eyes flew open. He did not look amused. She swallowed.
“I’m going to fall.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head. “How do you know?”
“My hands are bound.”
“That could potentially cause a problem.”
“You’re not going to do anything.”
“No.” He pointed his pistol at her. “Start walking.”
“But—”
“Mr. Dubois,” interrupted Captain Shaw. “You have taken more time than any other captive I have encountered in my career. We have a short amount of time before this ship is entirely ablaze. Perhaps I should shoot you and end my suffering. There are other men who wish to live through the night.”
&nbs
p; Alana’s mouth snapped shut. Rolling her shoulders back, she turned away, placing one hesitant foot on the ladder. She wobbled, fighting to retain her balance as the ships pitched. Sliding the next foot forward, she inched forward. The ships rolled again. With a shriek, she dropped to the ladder, balanced precariously as the ships continued to rock.
“If he remains there another minute, shoot him,” scowled Captain Shaw. “We need to abandon this ship, and I have no patience for weakness.” He vanished, his spiteful words swirling around Alana’s head. Mr. Wickes removed his pistol from his waistband, pointing it at Alana.
“Captain’s orders,” he said, his voice even.
“Move, Alana,” she murmured aloud, stretching out her hands. Grabbing the rung in front of her, she dragged herself forward, drawing her legs up behind her. She crawled across the ladder in this manner, pulling herself rung by rung, her eyes locked on the ship. As she reached the other side, a small sigh escaped her lips.
A man leaned over the railing, grabbing the waistband of her trousers, flinging her over his shoulder. She bounced once, rolling on the deck. Crashing into the mast, her body folded unnaturally. She groaned, drawing her knees into her chest.
“And who do you belong to?” asked the man, yanking her from the deck.
“Captain Shaw wants him as a manservant,” answered Mr. Evans, leaping over the railing, having traversed the ladder with the three other men who were tied to the mast. “Chain him in the Captain’s quarters, Mr. Hayward. You three, follow me.”
Nodding, Mr. Hayward grabbed the rope binding Alana’s wrists and dragged her across the deck. “You’re lucky,” he murmured, pushing open a door, and ushering Alana inside. “Captain Shaw doesn’t often show prisoners favor.”
“I don’t understand.” Alana followed him into the small room. Moonlight streamed in from a window in the center of the room, highlighting an ornate desk and chair. An oil lamp was lit, chasing the shadows to the edges of the cabin, bathing the walls in soft light.
“Captain hasn’t had a cabin boy,”—his eyes flicked over Alana—“manservant for several months. I’m surprised he decided to take one on this late into our journey. However, you must have captured his attention. I pray you do not lose his sympathy; he is the only man aboard who possesses any.” Dragging a cannonball from underneath the desk, Mr. Hayward knelt at Alana’s feet.
“Do you?” asked Alana, balancing on one foot as he unfastened her boots.
Glancing up, Mr. Hayward’s blue eyes darkened. “No.” He yanked off her boot. “No need for these.”
“My shoes?” squeaked Alana. “What if I need…”
“Why would you need them?” replied Mr. Hayward, his calloused hands sliding up her leg. He yanked quickly, removing the second boot. “You’re on a ship. Stockings too, unless you’d prefer I continue to strip you.” He tilted his head.
“No.” Alana bent over, quickly ripping the material from her feet.
With a nod, Mr. Hayward secured the chain around her ankle. The chain stretched three feet to the winglet of the cannonball. Rising, he kicked the cannonball. It rolled toward a large bed in the far-right corner of the room, dragging Alana along with it, and bumped gently into the frame. “You can start with the bed. Captain will be along in a bit. Don’t leave.”
Alana rolled her eyes and turned to the bed, selecting the nearest pillow and punching it into shape. The door closed and locked, announcing the departure of Mr. Hayward. She collapsed onto the rumpled bed, tears gathering in her eyes.
How had she managed to end up in this predicament? Surely, this situation was much more dangerous than remaining on her father’s estate with both her brothers and a stockpile of rifles.
A glint of light hit her face. She lifted her head, wiping her face. The light flashed again, shining through the cabin window. Curious, she walked toward the window, finding herself restrained halfway across the room. Grumbling, she spun, yanking on the chain. The cannonball rolled, completing one full rotation before stopping again. With a growl, she pulled the chain again, setting her whole body against the weight of the cannonball. Dragging it forward, she spun, approaching the window.
There was just enough chain for her to place her face against the glass, her leg stretched out behind her at a bizarre angle. Her gaze searched the water for the light. Sliding along the burning ship, Alana’s eyes reached the stern of the ship. She gasped. Floating twenty meters behind the ship was a lifeboat with people aboard. Squinting, she cupped her hands around her face. Women! It was a boatful of women. Was it possible Louisa had survived? How had the boat dropped into the water? Had the fire burned through the ropes releasing the boat from the side of the ship?
An explosion rocked the ship, and the cannonball rolled backward, dragging Alana away from the window. Cursing, she hopped after the ball, the chain digging into her soft flesh. Collapsing on the bed, she slid her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, blood coming away on her fingertips. She cursed and kicked the ball.
“Curious language from a gentleman.”
Shrieking, Alana’s head whipped up. Captain Shaw stood in the doorway, an amused grin on his face. “I wasn’t aware I was not alone.”
“Gentlemen only curse in private?” asked Captain Shaw, stepping into the room and closing the door.
“You would be surprised at the behavior of gentlemen,” replied Alana, reaching for the second pillow.
Nodding his agreement, Captain Shaw walked toward her, skirting around the edge of the bed, opening the door to an armoire fastened to the wall. As he removed his shirt, a muffled groan escaped. He peeled away the cloth stuck to his shoulder slowly, revealing a peculiar map of scars etched across his body.
“Was that my fault?” She pointed at the open wound on his arm.
His head popped out around the door. “Would that please you?”
She stuck her fingers between the cuff and her ankle, holding them up. Blood glistened on her fingertips.
“It would not upset me.”
His gaze flicked down at her hand. He shrugged. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Dubois.”
“What do you expect of me?”
“Right now.” Captain Shaw grimaced, removing something from the armoire. Leaning over, he set a small box next to her on the bed. “I expect you to sew up my arm.”
He was shirtless! She blushed, her gaze sliding down his bare chest, defined by years of hard labor. Not that Sebastian was unattractive, but he’d had a more refined, stout physique. Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. It had been two years since she’d had relations with a man… and here she was, fantasizing about a pirate—a man whose cruel reputation extended through countries, instilling fear in ladies and gentlemen alike. Forcing her eyes down to the bed, she flipped open the box’s lid. A needle and a spool of thread greeted her; her head whipped up.
“I cannot sew.”
“Most gentlemen can’t; however, there are not many doctors at sea.” Lumbering across the room, he grabbed a bottle from his desk and walked back to the bed, dropping beside her. Pulling out the cork, he tipped the bottle backward, drinking deeply. Lowering the bottle, his eyes slid over Alana, tilting the bottle toward her. “And this is your fault.”
“I’m not certain drinking will help my lack of talent.”
He snorted. “It won’t, but it will calm your nerves.”
She nodded, accepting the bottle. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed it to her lips, tipping it. The liquid burned her throat. She coughed, leaning forward on her knees.
“It’s fairly strong.” He grinned, taking the bottle from her hand. She glared at him through watering eyes. “I should have warned you.”
“Considering you’re about to trust me with a needle and thread, I would think you would be a bit kinder to me.”
A pistol cocked, ripped from an unseen location, the muzzle pointed directly at her face.
“Are you saying I cannot trust you, Mr. Dubois? Mr. Hayward is more than capable of
sewing up my injury.”
“I was not suggesting treachery, Captain Shaw,” she replied quickly, sitting up and lifting the needle from the box. “I am merely warning you of my inabilities.”
Lowering the pistol, he indicated for her to continue, extending his injured left arm, and resting his palm on her knee. The heat from his skin blazed through her trousers. Her hand slid up his sinewy arm, the muscles flexing underneath her feathery touch. The strange heat emanated from his arm as well; Alana’s stomach clenched. Surely she could not develop an attachment to a monster such as Captain Shaw. A peculiar look passed over his face. Reaching down, he grabbed her wrist, lifting her hand and inspecting her fingers.
“I am willing to bet you’ve never performed labor.”
She snatched her arm away, her eyes narrowing.
“Regardless of your opinion of gentlemen, Captain Shaw, you asked me to assist you. Either remain silent and allow me to perform the task or find someone else to help you.”
His arm whipped out, fingers closing around her chin. Pinching the skin, he wrenched her head, yanking her toward him. “You are not in any position to give demands. You are alive because you amuse me. Do not lose my favor.” Flinging her off the bed, he watched her crash into the unforgiving edge of the open armoire door.
Pain exploded in the center of her back, radiating down her spine. She screamed in agony, rolling back and forth on the floor, her hands clamped to her back, tears rolling down her face. He rose, stepped over her body, extracting a shirt from the armoire, his cold gaze dropping to her.
“You have failed your first test this evening, Mr. Dubois. Pray you do not fail your second.”
Chapter 5
“Captain Shaw.” The tentative knock echoed through the small cabin. Alana rolled to her side, pain pulsating through her back. Pushing up with a groan, her gaze slid to the door. She sucked in a breath, swallowing a moan. Did Captain Shaw intend to beat her to death?
“You have not earned a reprieve.” His deep brown eyes blazed black, and a shiver raced through her body. “Enter.”
The door scraped open, a trunk sliding into the room, propelled by an invisible force. Mr. Hayward followed, a second trunk resting on his shoulders. Stopping in front of the desk, he set the small trunk on top. It was her trunk! Then, returning for the second trunk, he positioned it beside the desk, nearest a table and chairs. He spun, his gaze sliding over Alana—showing no emotion—landing on Captain Shaw.