Sea of Ruin

by Pam Godwin

  Was he even human?

  I feigned a toothy grin. His mouth didn’t move. I wriggled my fingers in a taunting wave. He didn’t flinch. Not a tarnal twitch.

  No sense of humor, this one. Not that I was feeling amorous or droll by any means. In fact, dread was rising faster than I could push it down.

  As a titled nobleman, he’d been bred to hide his true feelings and intentions beneath an air of pomp and pageantry. But this level of impassibility couldn’t have been learned. He was heartlessly detached by nature.

  I had no evidence to back up my conclusion. It was a gut feeling. But my instincts rarely steered me wrong. Case in point… Priest Farrell. When I’d met the king of libertines, my gut had known he would ruin me. My heart just hadn’t cared.

  Other than Priest, I’d outmaneuvered most of my adversaries because I was a woman and considered the weaker sex by default. On a ship, at a tavern, astride a horse, in a bed, it didn’t matter. Men always misjudged me and paid for that mistake.

  Lord Cutler, however, didn’t fit the molds of my foes. Nothing shone in his demeanor, features, or stature that betrayed his thoughts. I positively couldn’t read him.

  For the first time since waking on HMS Blitz, I felt real fear. It scraped icy fingers up my spine and flapped leathery wings in my stomach. But I didn’t let it surface as I met the commodore stare for stare.

  He was, quite unfortunately, a handsome son of a bitch. Inarguably handsome, but in a rigid, chillingly regal manner. His hair was trimmed close to his scalp on the sides, leaving a short length of inky etiquette on top. His blunt jawline, with all its right angles, was so porcelain-like and hairless I wondered if he could even grow whiskers on that rock-hard face.

  But the longer I gazed into those menacing blue eyes, the more I realized his youthful features were deceiving. He held himself with the confident, hardened stance of a man who had more experience than me on the sea. If I had to guess, he was in his early thirties. At least ten years my senior.

  He reminded me of my father with that jaded look in his stare. The one that confessed he could inflict suffering without being affected by it. Only my father hadn’t been able to retain that vicious air around me.

  I wondered if anything or anyone could rattle Lord Cutler’s insensibility.

  My blood thrilled at the challenge.

  Tense silence measured the passing seconds until I realized his reticence was a weapon he used to terrorize his enemies. I wished I could apply the same tactic, but his stillness made my skin itch.

  I raised my chin and held his gaze. “If saving drowning women is your way of soliciting female companionship for dinner, you’re trying too hard.”

  “Bennett Sharp, you’ve been taken into custody for piracy and murder. I shall transport you to England, a month’s journey thereabouts, where you will stand trial for your crimes.”

  His deep aristocratic voice pronounced every syllable with perfect English inflection. But his arrogance made him complacent. He hadn’t considered the possibility that I’d arranged Jade’s escape, set up my own rescue, and had a backup plan or two in the event that Priest failed.

  By the time I ran this warship off course, the commodore wouldn’t know what hit him.

  I studied him a moment, trying to glean his true self beneath the polished veneer.

  Who are you, Ashley Cutler?

  I recognized the surname but couldn’t place it. “Your father resides among the Peerage of England?”

  “Lord John Cutler is the first Viscount Warshire and serves as the Secretary of State for the Northern Department.”

  A lower rank than my grandfather but a prominent peer of the realm, nonetheless. Yet, at the mention of his father, there’d been no pride in his tone. No attachment. He’d sounded as if he were reading the title off a visiting card.

  Oh, how I longed to know what inspired this man. Was he deeper than his career aspirations? Weaker or mentally slower than he appeared? Was he married or betrothed? Loved by some or despised by all?

  Everyone had a vulnerability. I just needed to find his.

  His strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and noble nose supplied a blank canvas for the brilliant blue of his eyes. But I found myself focusing instead on his shapely chiseled mouth. The pinkish lips added an alluring contrast to his impeccable English complexion.

  And when those lips moved, every man on the ship stopped breathing to listen.

  “Put the pirate in the hold.” He flicked a finger against the front of his coat, giving an invisible speck more attention than he gave his captive.

  Multiple hands fell upon me, restraining my arms behind my back. No sense in fighting. I was outnumbered four-hundred men to one. Besides, when I’d designed this plan, I expected to spend weeks, if not months, in irons.

  As Lord Cutler strode toward the gangway ladder, the lieutenants pulled me along behind him. With my arms shackled by immovable fists, my attention narrowed on the snug coat that draped the commodore’s impressive shoulders and hinted at a hard, tight arse. Long legs flexed in tailored white breeches. Defined calves stretched the wool of his pristine stockings.

  The man was immaculately dressed, accentuating all his best assets. But he had dreadful taste in footwear. The buckles on his square-toed shoes were made of pure gold with embedded jewels. I didn’t care how fashionable they were. If he did any sort of work on this ship, they wouldn’t last a day.

  I focused on those ridiculous shoes because the rest of him was just too compelling. His physical beauty defied the laws of nature, and I wanted nothing to do with that. My opinion of him needed to ferment in the back of my throat until all I tasted was repulsion.

  Down the companionway and along the windowless passages, he stopped at the door to his private quarters. The lieutenants kept moving, shoving me onward to the ladder beyond.

  “What do I call you?” I twisted my neck, finding his ice-blue eyes over my shoulder. “Commodore Prick? Lord Sweet Lips? My favorite arsehole?”

  His expression remained empty, his carriage rigid.

  “You’re clenching it, aren’t you?” I glanced at the vicinity of his arse and cocked a brow.

  He didn’t respond.

  Stoic to a fault.

  Nerves of steel.

  I pursed my lips and blew him a kiss. “I’ll see you soon, darling.”

  He’d just captured the notorious daughter of Edric Sharp. Curiosity and arrogance would bring him slithering into my lap before nightfall.

  Just so, he didn’t acknowledge any of this as he vanished into his cabin.

  Several hatchways later, my escorts dragged me through the lowest level of the warship. Weaving around coils of cables, live chickens and geese, and water stores, we had to stoop beneath the low rafters. Near the center of the ship, the crawlspace opened into a large area with more headroom.

  As we turned the corner, the dank air perspired with the stench of too many unwashed bodies crammed together in close quarters.

  Then I saw them.

  Confined in one large hold behind an iron gate, sweaty men stood shoulder to shoulder, coughing, stinking, and spreading disease. I took in the shadowed landscape of unkempt beards, gold earrings, jackboots, distrusting glares…

  Captured pirates.

  Lord Cutler was a pirate hunter. Of course, I wasn’t his only prize. But twenty…thirty…forty of my kind? It was horrifying.

  Worse, he meant to imprison me with the animals. I was one of them, after all, driven by the thrill of raiding, killing, and raising hell on the high seas.

  With one distinct difference.

  Dozens of eyes slid in my direction. Hungry, predatory eyes that saw only a female, a body to rut, and nothing more. I wouldn’t survive a night in that cage.

  The lieutenants shoved me toward the gate.

  My heart slammed in my throat. “How long have they been in there?”

  “Some of them a month or longer.” One of the officers jabbed a key into the lock.

  The cli
cking sound drove my pulse too hard, too fast, terrorizing my veins. Memories flooded, transporting me back into the body of a fourteen-year-old girl fighting for her virtue beneath the brutality of the Marquess of Grisdale.

  My skin shuddered, tightening and pulling away from my bones. I refused to be violated like that again. Not by a marquess. Not by forty pirates. Not by any man.

  But what if I didn’t have a choice?

  A scream wavered on the end of my tongue, urging me to call for the commodore and beg him for mercy. But he’d ordered me down here, knowing exactly what awaited. He would grant no quarter, and my useless demands for special treatment would only reveal my crippling fear.

  One thing I could not do was enter that enclosure showing weakness. The pirates would scent it, feed on it, and become rabid.

  As the lieutenants shoved me forward, I fought fearlessly, furiously, thrashing, spitting, and doing what any man would do in my position. Instinct took over until all that existed was the savage impetuosity to protect myself.

  But in the end, I was too small, unarmed, outnumbered, and quickly subdued.

  My knees scraped along the planks as the lieutenants shoved and kicked me into the hold. I landed on my backside, and the sound of the gate locking surged bile through my chest.

  I was a pirate captain, dammit. I’d maimed, tortured, and slaughtered some decisively evil and scary men. I didn’t possess Priest’s magnetic ability to win over a crowd, but I could command them with my eyes closed. I just needed them to see beyond my femaleness.

  A pair of trousers would have been splendid right now.

  Breathing deeply, I slowed the heave of my lungs, rose to my full height, and steeled my spine. Then I turned and faced forty ravenous rogues.

  “Point me to your captain.” I searched the overcrowded space, taking an inventory of scars, long greasy braids, suspicious skin sores, and creatures crawling in beards.

  If I’d kept Priest in the bilge for a month without a wash bucket, would he have reached this level of pungency? I didn’t think so, but I was rather inclined to favor his appearance, no matter everything else that was wrong with him.

  The pack of thieves leered with wild eyes. Some sniffed the air in front of me. Others grunted throaty noises.

  None pointed out the captain.

  My teeth sawed the insides of my cheeks. It didn’t matter if they all came from the same crew or met one another in this hold. Pirates were a democratic breed, and they always had a leader.

  “Were you hit on your heads?” I balled my hands at my sides, concealing the nervous shaking. “Or do you not speak the king’s English?”

  “The king doesn’t speak English, lassie.” The low, rough Scottish accent came from somewhere in the back.

  It was true that King George—who hailed from Germany to England—refused to speak in the tongue of his inherited realm. But that was neither here nor there.

  What concerned me was the owner of that Scottish brogue. He was the leader, and if he knew things about the English king, he wasn’t without intellect. That didn’t bode well for me. Neither did the rising agitation rippling through his men.

  I faced the direction of the voice. “Show yourself, Highlander.”

  The stench of body odor shifted around me before ruthless fingers captured my wrists. Innumerable hands. There were so many attackers all at once it only took seconds to restrain my limbs and shove me deep into the sticky horde of bodies.

  When I hit the back wall, I could no longer see the gate. Half a dozen men held my arms and legs, stretching me like an X with my spine against the wooden rib of the warship’s hull.

  Full-body tremors pummeled through me. It couldn’t be helped. My arms twisted in sweaty clutches, my hands slipping uselessly, unable to find a gripping place. The more I struggled, the stronger and heavier my attackers became, multiplying in numbers and moving like a tidal wave until they formed a single unpreventable force that crashed against me, bruised my skin, and bellowed vile promises.

  “Back off!” I screamed and gnashed my teeth. “Release me! I can help you!”

  Everything stopped. The pirates who restrained me didn’t let go, but the others fell back. The swarm divided, leaving a narrow path for one man to approach.

  The captain.

  Long red hair tangled around a matching beard that hung to his chest. Luminous green eyes shone out of a narrow face that might have been attractive, if not for the foreboding sneer that slashed across it.

  He prowled toward me, tall, lean, and shirtless. The scars on his freckled torso and arms painted a gruesome constellation. Frayed trousers sagged low on trim hips. No boots. No jewelry. Nothing to indicate who he was.

  But there was only one known redheaded pirate captain from Scotland, and his noxious reputation preceded him.

  “Madwulf MacNally.” I jutted my chin, my nostrils pulsing with the rush of my breaths. “I’m Bennett Sharp.”

  My name flickered recognition in his eyes before they hardened into cold green jewels. “I dinna care if you’re the Countess of Nithsdale. Right now all you are is caged, just like the rest of us.”

  My stomach clenched, but I made my mouth smile. “I can help you escape.”

  “You?” His chuckle spread a chill across my skin. “The only release you can provide is the one I’ll be taking between your bonny thighs.”

  My pulse quickened, but I didn’t fight the hands that held me. I forced myself to remain calm and unruffled.

  If I told him the notorious Priest Farrell was going to stop this warship from reaching England’s shore, he wouldn’t believe me. Or maybe he would, but it wouldn’t dissuade him from his cruel intentions.

  No, I couldn’t mention Priest. Not without risking the commodore hearing my rescue plan.

  “How about I save my bonny thighs to trap Lord Cutler?” I grinned despite my surgent nausea. “I’ll obtain a private meeting with him, put him in a scandalous position, and—”

  “If his lordship was interested in you, you wouldn’t be here. With us.”

  Hard to argue.

  My stomach sank.

  “I dinna mind his cast-offs if they all look like you.” He crowded in and traced an overgrown fingernail along my jawline, making me gag. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen on the high seas. Right, lads?”

  The men cheered and whistled in agreement.

  “Momentarily, I’ll be using your wee cunt quite thoroughly against this wall.” Madwulf pawed between my legs, beneath the shirt, skin against skin. “You’re going to cry, but dinna fash yourself about that. I want your tears, daughter of Edric.”

  “No.” A hot ember formed in my throat, and I squirmed helplessly. “Not this. I’ll give you something else. Anything. Name it.”

  “This is all you have to give, lassie.” He dug a thick finger into my dry flesh and thrust.

  My entire body cringed and bucked, but there was nowhere to go. Too many hands held me in place. Too many mouths panting against my face. The reek of rotten teeth made my gut turn.

  “But I’m nae a selfish man.” He stabbed deeper, scraping broken fingernails along my insides. “I always leave a wee bit of something to share with my laddies, and they prefer it to still be a-kickin’.”

  “I don’t need her kicking, Captain, or breathing,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “Just so long as I get me some relief in one of them holes.”

  Laughter erupted as the knaves shoved one another in excitement.

  My joints locked to the point of pain, and tears rose, burning the back of my throat. But I kept it at bay and held Madwulf’s gaze, my eyes dry and stony.

  His cock was out, the bulbous head of it ramming against my naked thigh and drooling thick beads of slime. The thought of having that thing inside me dropped a hot, jagged rock in my stomach.

  There was no stopping this. Even if I possessed the intelligence to talk my way out of it, Madwulf wasn’t a person who could be reasoned with. All I had left was my anger, and I let it burn
me up from the inside out.

  “What a strong, fearsome man you are.” I chewed each word and spat it between my teeth. “Forcing your lust upon a woman while she’s held down by forty scoundrels. Praise be to God for big, tough Madwulf MacNally. Your kin must be proud.”

  With his chest so close to my mouth, I jerked forward and bit down on a hunk of sweat-slick flesh. Hard enough to make him bleed.

  His hand swung, colliding with my cheekbone, as he roared with laughter.

  I tasted blood, from the bite, from the strike of his fist. Instead of swallowing it, I worked it around with my saliva and spat the whole mouthful at his face.

  It landed on the corner of his lips, clinging to the wiry hairs of his red beard. A depraved smile contorted his expression, and his tongue snaked out, licking the blood-tinged spittle.

  Then he returned to my bone-dry flesh and the finger that he was jamming harder and faster inside me.

  I fought tears and gulped down the impulse to scream. For every sob that burned through my nose, I swallowed three more. I would not cry.

  He kicked my legs apart.

  There were no atheists in the hangman’s noose. As I faced the first of forty men to take a turn with my body, I found I wasn’t godless, either.

  Lips clamped, eyes closed, I prayed to whatever divine being that listened. I didn’t make excuses for my life. Didn’t beg forgiveness for the unchristian things I’d done. Didn’t make solemn promises to be a chaste, obedient woman.

  I just asked for strength. Courage. And breath. I needed to keep breathing, no matter how badly it hurt. If I held still and endured, I would get through it. I had to.

  Keeping my eyes squeezed shut, I focused on praying and tuned out the vulgar shouting around me. I couldn’t turn off the physical agony, but I didn’t need to watch it or hear it.

  Lost in my head, I let my body sag against the grips of brutal men as Madwulf jabbed his erection, searching for my opening. Tears gathered behind my closed eyes, silent and trapped.

  Don’t cry. Keep breathing.

  Everything inside me wanted to die.

  “Open your eyes.” Madwulf grabbed my throat. “Or I’ll peel them—”