Captured

by Beverly Jenkins

  Fifteen long-range cannons fired as one, striking the Amsterdam on its port and stern, and exploding with brilliant colors of gold and red.

  “Fire!”

  A second volley barked, this time hitting the deck and toppling the masts down onto already screaming, dying men. Even as the Amsterdam’s answering cannons continued to boom, fires flared from its bow to its stern and the ship was beginning to take on water, but Dominic was offering no quarter. “Ready the chains! Fire at will!”

  The Marie’s cannons thundered again, this time sending bar and chain shot hurtling towards the target. The halved cannonballs, held together by an iron bar or lengths of reinforced chain, reached their destination as whirling dervishes of destruction that splintered the Amsterdam’s remaining mast and ripped the sails and riggings to shreds. Shards of wood, some as long as a man’s arm, pierced limbs, faces, and eyes, plunging the defenders into screaming chaos.

  In the aftermath of such carnage, most ships were ready to surrender, but the Amsterdam seemed to be an exception. No white flag could be seen waving from the burning deck, even though some of her crew were jumping overboard into the chilly ocean water. “Lower the longboats!” Dominic ordered.

  The boats would rescue all who wished it, and Dominic doubted any of them would refuse. With all the blood and turmoil in the water, sharks would be arriving soon.

  The longboats hit the surface, and while the crewmen from the Marie rowed out to rendezvous with the deserters, Dominic called up to his pilot, “Put us closer, Esteban!”

  “Aye!” the pilot replied.

  As the Marie came alongside the crippled vessel, bodies could be seen lying on the burning deck and draped over the splintered, severed masts. Cannonballs were capable of decapitating ten to fifteen men at a time during a battle, and some of the dismembered dead bore evidence of that grim truth.

  “Prepare to board!”

  Token pistol fire was returned by the other side, but grappling hooks sailed from the Marie like nests of metal-headed snakes and held the Amsterdam fast.

  “We have less than an hour before she sinks!” Dominic informed his crew. “Find out what she’s carrying. I’ll find Vanweldt!”

  His men swarmed the burning boat. Armed with short swords, cutlasses, and clubs they took on what remained of the opposing crew. With his linked pistols hanging around his neck and a short sword in his hand. Dominic fought his way through the smoke, stepping over the dead and wounded as he searched for the enemy captain.

  “Where’s Vanweldt!” he barked at an injured man covered with blood and powder lying on the deck.

  The sneering man coughed and spat, “To hell with you, LeVeq.”

  Dominic grabbed him up and stuck a pistol in his mouth. “Shall I send you ahead to reserve a seat for me?”

  The man’s eyes widened with fear.

  Dominic drew the weapon free. “Where’s your captain!”

  “His quarters,” he snarled. “Below deck.”

  Tossing the man aside, Dominic angrily strode away.

  He met no resistance below decks, and when he reached the door, he didn’t bother to knock. He kicked it in, shattering the wood and the lock that was supposed to keep intruders like him out.

  Upon his entrance, the fear and surprise in the eyes of the two men inside put a sharklike smile on Dominic’s face. Pistols turned ominously their way, he asked, “Going somewhere, Vanweldt?” Trunks and valises were set out on the bed. Dominic had interrupted the slavers’ attempts to fill them all with gold and other booty. The man beside him was the mute giant Yves, the captain’s bodyguard. At six feet, eight inches tall and over three hundred pounds, Yves was no smarter than the average flounder, but could tear a man apart as easily as most people tore apart a chicken wing.

  “Bastard!” the Dutchman swore. “I should have killed you the last time we met.”

  “But you were too busy throwing children to the sharks, then slinking away like the cur you are rather than fight with any honor.”

  Yves made a move to advance, but was stayed by a warning touch of his captain’s hand. In the eyes of many women, Paul Vanweldt was a handsome man. He was of Dutch and African descent, but in the eyes of those he stole from the Mother Continent, the slaver was an abomination. “What’s in your hold?”

  “You tell me.”

  The ball fired from Dominic’s pistol exploded in Vanweldt’s shoulder, and he let out a scream, clutching his injured flesh. His eyes widened in disbelief.

  “That appears to be the wrong answer, non?”

  Yves took another menacing step forward, only to have Dominic promise, “One more step and I’ll shoot you and then him in the balls.”

  Yves stopped, his ugly dark face blazing with hatred.

  Dominic saw Gaspar enter the room. The quartermaster was holding two large-bore pistols.

  “Thought I’d come join the party,” he said to Dominic, but his attention and his guns were focused on the men across the room.

  “The more the merrier. How goes it above?”

  “We’re mopping up. I sent some men to the hold. No captives.”

  Dominic’s eyes had never left Vanweldt. “Then we may let him live.”

  “I vote no.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration. Let’s go above, gentlemen. After you.”

  Up on deck, the air was thick with the mingled scent of smoke and gunpowder. The fires had been doused, leaving behind a blackened and shattered deck stained with blood and littered with the dead, broken masts, and pieces of tattered sails.

  Vanweldt surveyed the damage with wide eyes, then turned to glare at Dominic, who responded by saying, “Maybe you should have been up here commanding your crew instead of trying to save your loot.”

  Vanweldt promised coolly, “The next time we meet, LeVeq, plan to die.”

  “Who says there will be a next time?” He turned to Gaspar. “Get our men back on the Marie.”

  “What about the cargo in the hold?”

  “Let it go down with the ship.”

  Vanweldt stared in stunned disbelief. “There’s a fortune down there!”

  “I don’t care. My only intention is to sink this ship. I’d kiss the Devil himself before making a profit from anything carried in a slaver damned by the blood and souls of dead children.”

  Dominic called to the surviving members of the Dutchman’s crew, “Anyone who wants to join the Marie is welcome to sign the articles. Otherwise, I’d unlash the longboats and take to the oars. By the next bell, our cannons are going to send this whore straight to the bottom.”

  Filled with the memory of those screaming, drowning children, the stone-faced Dominic walked back to board the Marie. In the wake of his exit, Vanweldt, Yves, and the remaining crew scrambled to get to the longboats before it was too late.

  “Come on, miss, before he sees us.”

  Clare left the spot where she and the Cherokee Washington Julian had secretly watched the battle, and slipped back down the stairs to the captain’s cabin. Once they were safely back inside he told her, “He ever find out I let you watch, he’ll maroon me for sure.”

  “And that means what, exactly?”

  “Back in the old pirate days, a man who disobeyed orders could be voted off the ship and taken to a deserted island and left there. They’d be given a pistol and enough food and water to last a few days.”

  “And then?”

  “You were either rescued by a passing ship or you died there—thus the pistol. In case you wanted to put yourself out of your misery.”

  Clare shuddered faintly. “I will keep our secret.”

  “Good.”

  Clare liked Mr. Julian. In the time they’d spent together during the hours-long battle, she’d learned that before the European slave trade settled on Africans, peoples like America’s Indians and other natives in places like South America had been enslaved first, only to die by the thousands under the harsh conditions. His Cherokee clan had been arrested and sold into slave
ry a generation ago for refusing to turn over their land to newly arrived English colonists in upper Georgia. After a series of escapes and recaptures, he escaped for good ten years ago.

  As they took their seats at the table to renew their game of backgammon, he said to her, “Every man on the Marie is an escapee from something—slavery, the British Navy, debt, family, unjust accusations.”

  “And the captain?”

  “His brother, Eduard.”

  Clare knew the captain and his brother were at odds over their father’s estate but wondered if there was more to the story. Having no answers she looked down at the game board in front of her and let go of the tension and excitement brought on by the battle she’d just witnessed. She knew the captain wanted revenge on the Amsterdam, but to let the valuable cargo sink with the ship was something she wouldn’t have believed a man like him capable of had she not heard and seen the drama unfold for herself. It came to her that once again, her preconceived notions of what LeVeq was because of how he made his living were deeply flawed, or at least seemed to be.

  The captain entered a while later. “Thank you, Mr. Julian. You may leave us now.”

  “Aye, sir. I enjoyed our visit, Miss Clare.”

  “As did I. Thank you.”

  After his exit, Dominic walked over to where she sat and asked, “All is well?”

  She nodded. “And you?” There were blood and smudges of black powder on his red coat. Similar stains could be seen on the blousy white shirt he wore beneath. She noticed a cut on his throat. “You’ve been cut. Your neck is bleeding,” she said, rising to her feet to get a better view.

  His fingers went to the wound as he walked over to the mirror atop the armoire. “A gift from one of Vanweldt’s men. I’ll live.” He felt the weariness of the day begin to take hold.

  “It should be cleaned and dressed.”

  “Right now, I just wish to sit.” He was exhausted and wondered if he might be getting too old for the spirited life of a privateer. He felt good about sending the Amsterdam to the bottom, though. Depriving Vanweldt of his profits was an added boon.

  “Then come and sit and let me clean it. You don’t want a poison to settle in.”

  “Clare—”

  “Sit, Captain.”

  Her firm tone garnered a weary smile, “Yes, ma’am.” He took a seat in the chair Julian had vacated.

  “Where are your medicinals?”

  “James has whatever is available, and I am not going to bother him for such a small prick.”

  “You’d rather wait until your neck swells up like a gourd, I suppose.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “I didn’t know you had a stubborn streak.”

  “You don’t know a number of things about me.”

  “Sassy, too.”

  “Only with you it seems.”

  That made him smile. “All right, if I go and get a plaster from James, will you stop bedeviling me?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed heavily. “Fine.” Hoisting himself out of the chair he’d just gotten comfortable in, he added, “I’ll expect a boon for this.”

  “Your boon will be a treated wound.”

  He shook his head as he looked down at her. “I’ll want a kiss.”

  Her heart stopped, taking with it her ability to breathe. Captured by the mischief in his eyes, she finally found her voice. “Well, you shan’t have one.”

  His gaze lowered and then lingered on her lips. “I call it payment for putting up with your nagging.”

  “Then forget the plaster. Maybe you’ll end up with so much poison James will have to cut off your head.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty little wench,” he responded, chuckling.

  “Who will not be handing out kisses like Christmas treats.” Even though she was so aware of him, she seemed to be warmed by an inner heat that flowed directly from him.

  As she stood before him with her arms folded firmly, Dominic felt a strong urge to take her in his arms and give her bewitching and sassy mouth something else to contemplate. “A kiss, petite,” he warned, and left the room.

  Alone, Clare wondered if it was normal to be so affected by a man. Did he really expect her to fulfill his request? After his heartfelt words last night, she no longer feared he’d do her harm, so she was certain he wouldn’t force a kiss on her. He was just trying to needle her, she supposed, and he did like to tease. In the middle of those logical thoughts the remembrance of last night and his warm touch against her cheek came back unbidden, and she relived the moment all over again; the way her eyes lidded closed, the way she’d trembled. What might it be like to give herself to him fully and without inhibition? she wondered. The thought was scandalous, true, but once she returned to Savannah her captivity would resume. Should she give in to him and see where this small respite might lead? But she had no answer.

  Chapter 4

  H

  e was gone for such a long time, Clare thought maybe he’d decided to seek his rest elsewhere, but moments later the door opened and he strode in. He’d washed up while away. The damp, jet black hair hung loose behind his ear, brushing his collar. He’d changed his shirt, breeches, and stockings as well. None of the replacements appeared newly laundered, but they were far cleaner than the ones he’d worn previously. He’d shaved, too. The fresh-clipped beard rode his jaw with a shadowy rakishness that only added to his dangerous countenance.

  “James sent some plaster, and I’m still wanting that kiss,” he pronounced, eyes holding hers.

  Ignoring his declaration, she took the battered tin cup from his hand and stirred the dab of sticky plaster with the small tarnished spoon resting inside. “You’ll have to sit, please.”

  He took a seat in the chair at his desk and his manner was easy as he watched her intently.

  Only then did she realize that she’d set herself up. In order to get close enough to apply the plaster she’d have to do just that, get close; close enough to touch his skin, close enough for the heat of his body to brush her own.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head quickly. “No.” Taking in a deep breath to buttress her resolve, she moved to the side of the chair so she could begin.

  “Might be easier if you stand in front of me, petite.”

  She paused. The gaze she met fairly sparkled with amusement.

  He tipped his head back so that the cut was exposed. “I’m ready when you are.”

  He had her over a barrel and they both knew it, but she refused to tuck tail and run. Determined not to look into his face, she leaned in and spread a thin line of the plaster down both sides of the open wound. Although she tried to remain unmoved by his nearness, warmth, and clean fresh smell, it was impossible. A quick look up showed him watching her, so she just as quickly refocused on her task. “Did the doctor send something to bind this with?”

  “Yes.” He handed her a thin short strip of black silk.

  She gently placed one edge of the silk against the outer edge of the wound, then just as gently pinched the skin closed, and pressed the unattached edge of the silk over it. The plaster and silk would hold the wound together and keep out any dirt while it healed. “There,” she said approvingly. “Now you won’t have to worry about poison or decapitation.”

  “And my kiss?”

  She viewed him silently at first, taking in the chiseled features, the shape of his mouth, and the gold hoop gleaming in his ear. To her surprise and to his, she tossed back the same question he’d posed to her earlier. “If I say yes, will you stop bedeviling me?”

  He grinned and confessed, “Probably not.”

  She looked away hoping to hide her smile, but he gently turned her chin back and gazed at her long enough for time to stand still, and for all her defenses to crumble and melt away. Warm lips brushed hers as he whispered, “Probably not, because one kiss will lead to another, and another, and another…”

  It was the most arousing moment of Clare’s life. His mouth was fir
m yet fleeting, bewitching her with a series of short, slow kisses that sparked, seduced, and promised more. She’d never experienced anything so deliciously overwhelming, and for a moment could do nothing but let him have his lazy, heated, feasting way. In response she was breathless, drowning. When he gently tugged her down onto his lap, she complied without protest. Easing her closer, he deepened the kiss.

  “You are sweet, petite,” he husked out, pressing slow hot touches of his lips against her mouth until it parted passionately. When he teased the tip of his tongue against the trembling corners and then nibbled possessively on the ripe, lush flesh of her bottom lip, she moaned.

  Dominic knew from the moment he kissed her that the longer she sat on his lap, the more likely she’d wind up with his hands touching her everywhere. He’d sensed she’d be passionate, but not this beguiling. Her lips were like manna, and all he wanted to do was slide his hands over her silk-dressed curves and then beneath to sample the damp fullness he knew awaited him there in the warm darkness. Wanting to pull away from her tempting mouth before things got out of hand, but unable to do so, he murmured over his racing blood, “Clare, unless you want to surrender to me fully, we should stop.”

  Her lips stinging, her breathing heightened, Clare pulled back just enough to break the contact. She closed her eyes for a moment in a vain attempt to find herself.

  He placed his lips against her ear, murmuring, “I could kiss you until the sun becomes the moon.”

  There seemed to be a haze over her vision and her whole body felt awake in a strange and wonderful way. Her nipples had tightened to hard points and her blood seemed to be singing a slow undulating tune. “Is this the way it should be?” she asked.

  “Is this the way what should be?”

  “The beginning of coitus between a man and a woman.”

  “Yes,” Dominic responded, noting her now serious manner. “Was it not this way when you conceived your children?”