The Pirate Bride

by Shannon Drake

  “It has been drawn to my unhappy attention that the ship must receive maintenance,” Red said without looking up. She dipped her quill into the ink and continued writing in what appeared to be a log.

  “So it goes with ships,” he said.

  She glanced up at that. “I’m assuming, Laird Haggerty, that you have brought your ships into dry dock, but I’m afraid that’s not a possibility for us, as you can well imagine. I had hoped to see you safely set upon an island in the Outer Banks within days, but I’m afraid that will be out of the question until we’ve completed repairs.”

  “I’m at your disposal,” he replied with dry humor.

  “Hmm,” Red murmured, returning to her writing. “I received a letter today. A Lord Bethany—and a Lady Cassandra Bethany—have offered to pay for your safe return.”

  Logan didn’t know why he found that information so disheartening.

  “They are good people,” he said simply.

  “I left a reply. Good people are apparently not above finding those who are willing to enter pirate towns. The letter came through the Cock’s Crow.”

  He smiled slightly at that. “Captain, I have been in that tavern before, as you know. I am glad that you will receive the ransom.”

  Red studied him for a moment. “I left a reply that you would be left safely ashore. We are asking no ransom.”

  “That’s quite generous of you.”

  “You are apparently quite dear to Lord Bethany—and his daughter. I thought you should know.”

  It was curious that she seemed to be expecting something from him.

  He was silent for a moment. “Thank you,” he said. It was almost a question.

  “Lady Cassandra Bethany. Is she your fiancée?” she asked. The tone was casual, as she set quill to ink once again.

  “Not at this time.”

  Red looked up again. “Ah. Perhaps your beloved?”

  “A very dear friend.”

  “A proper young lady?”

  “Quite proper, yes. Why do you ask?”

  Red set down the quill and sat back, a half smile curving her lips. “I’m sorry. I’m just imagining your life. The drawing rooms, the elegance. A proper young woman. Ah, but proper can mean so many things among the wealthy. Proper—she’s rich. Proper—she has a title. A proper marriage would no doubt provide a wonderful advancement in your social status.”

  The words were like nails raking down his back. Proper could be all those things. But if he’d had his own doubts about sincerely being in love, rather than feeling an infatuation and an affection for someone, the taunting words of the captain were like knife cuts against his soul. He found himself taking a step closer to her desk and leaning both hands upon it. “She is proper in every way, Captain Robert.”

  Red laughed suddenly. “Does that mean she’s as ugly as sin?”

  He shook his head. He could be honest. “No. She’s a striking beauty, truly. Eyes like emeralds, and hair as blond and rich as gold. That is the truth. But even did she not have such a lovely visage, it wouldn’t matter. She has a certain purity of heart, a sweet humor, and is ever willing to help anyone downtrodden or in danger. There is truly nothing ill to be said of her.”

  “Well, I hope you will both be very happy. It sounds as if you make a perfect match. I had not previously imagined such a thing could really be, I admit,” Red said, and the laughter was gone. There was no taunt to the words.

  Yes, we should be perfect together, he thought.

  And yet…

  What was missing? Whatever it was, he had come to realize that Cassandra certainly deserved far more than what he could give, something that had nothing to do with lands or riches.

  “That’s all, Laird Haggerty,” Red said.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s all. You may leave.”

  He bowed and exited the cabin. As he closed the door, he felt the further drop in temperature and realized with a certainty that a storm was coming.

  In the distance, he could see a sheet of rain across the eastern sky. He didn’t know how many miles off the storm was, but it was going to be severe when it arrived.

  Brendan was striding toward him with a frown furrowing his brow.

  He nodded curtly to Logan; he was anxious to reach the captain’s cabin.

  “A storm is coming,” Logan said.

  “Aye.”

  “We need to lower the sails.”

  “Aye.”

  Red had sensed the change from inside her cabin; she emerged now and stood by the door, as if smelling the air and feeling the direction of the breeze, which seemed to have gone suddenly still.

  “It’s coming from the east,” Logan said.

  “I’ll order the sails brought down,” Brendan said.

  “No, not yet. Catch what wind we have. Isla Blanca is not far,” Red said. “If we can make her cove, it will be a safer place than we might find here or by pushing out to the open sea.”

  “You can’t outrun what’s coming,” Logan warned.

  She gazed at him, aggravated. “I don’t intend to attempt to outrun the storm, merely bring the ship into more protected waters. Brendan, take the helm and cut a hard course.”

  He nodded.

  “And call the hands,” Red said quietly.

  “All hands on deck!” Brendan shouted.

  There was a scurrying sound, footfalls upon the planks, as the crew gathered from their tasks.

  “Batten her down!” Red ordered. “All cargo, no matter how small, goes below. Extra rigging, gear, anything that might blow or roll overboard…down below.”

  At that moment, an eerie silence fell over them, as if nature herself had stilled.

  Logan knew that silence, just as the crew did, and knew it well. It was the calm that came just before the fury and tumult of a storm.

  “See to the small rigging, Logan,” Brendan ordered on his way to take the helm from Silent Sam.

  “Check your setting. Hard west, northwest,” Red ordered.

  Amazingly, despite the deadened wind that was just a wicked tease before the gale, Red’s orders brought them whipping hard toward the shallow waters. There were many islands here, Logan knew.

  And treacherous sandbars as well.

  At least they were far north of the reefs that might have torn apart the hull; if they could ride the waves without breaking up, they could weather the coming storm. As he wound and stored heavy ropes and canvas, he had to admire the seamanship of the pirate captain.

  “Lower all sails!” Red called out when they reached the cove. Hagar took up her order, and it was roared about the ship.

  Logan raced to join the men. Muscles bulged on massive, hardworking forearms as the crew set about the task. From the crow’s nest, a crewman shouted down, “She’s on us!”

  Red stood at the stern then, her spyglass in her hands. Hagar was near, repeating her orders as she called them out.

  “Down from the lookout, Davy!” the big man ordered.

  And then the rain began.

  It came with a sudden rage, along with the wind, which blew so hard it seemed the rain rose from the sea and tore at them horizontally. It stung like a swarm of bees. It was like being raked over and over again by massive talons.

  “Lash yourselves to the mast!” Red yelled, but it was an unnecessary order, for the crew seemed to know by instinct that the time had come when the ship was at the mercy of the waves, and themselves with her.

  Brendan tied himself to the wheel, doing his best to keep the ship perpendicular to the wind and avoid being hit broadside by the tremendous force of the sea and the storm. But despite their best efforts, a rope broke from the mainmast and came flying down toward Brendan, the large and lethal steel grommet at the end heading straight for his head.

  Red saw what was happening. She hadn’t tied herself to the ship yet, and she went running.

  As Logan and Hagar did.

  Logan launched himself at the rope, catching it just seconds before it co
uld complete its downward arc. He flew with it and crashed into Brendan himself. The breath was knocked from them both, but the disaster had been averted.

  Hagar, however, had been pitched, helpless, to the side of the ship just as she had taken a hard roll.

  “No!” Logan heard Red’s roar of denial, and saw her go flying after the man as he threatened to roll off the starboard side. She caught hold of him by the belt, and as the ship rose again and pitched in the opposite direction, she and Hagar rolled back to safety.

  But the wind was wicked and ruthless.

  It shrieked like a banshee, tearing around the naked masts, swirling the sea to further violence. The ship rolled hard again, and this time it was Red who was helpless as she was picked up by the storm and flung straight over the side.

  Logan let out a shrill scream of anger, fear and fury that rose even above the howling of the wind.

  He had to move in split seconds, even knowing that in this sea, with these waves, he was surely committing suicide with no chance of finding, much less saving, her.

  But he had no choice.

  He stripped off his coat as he raced across the deck, leapt to the rail and plunged into the vortex below.

  PERHAPS IT WOULD be a welcome grave, Red thought.

  She could swim, could even buck strong waves, and she knew about currents and giving herself over to the power of the ocean, floating to save her strength, to save her breath….

  But there seemed to be no top and no bottom to the water. There was no wave that offered the promise of carrying her to shore. There was no air, no sky, no surface. She was plunging down….

  She was dead, or soon would be….

  She could hear it all again. The screams of the children. She could see it all again. The endless spill of blood.

  No, she told herself. The scream was the wind.

  The blood was the sea.

  Then there were arms around her. Surely they belonged to those who now were only vague memories, whispers of what love and family could be. There was a world beyond, and she had to make it through this maelstrom to reach them where they waited for her.

  “Breathe!”

  Something vised violently about her chest. She spat out seawater, and her lungs instinctively dragged in huge drafts of air, but even the air was wet, and she gasped and choked. The pain was so great that she longed to slip below the cold surface again and let the water cradle her and draw her under.

  “Breathe, damn you! Live!”

  She gulped in air again. She was being dragged. Dragged through the water and the waves. She tried to breathe, but the waves were sweeping over her again and again.

  “Hold on!”

  Hold on? To what?

  Then she could feel something. Something solid. Wood. And it was holding her above the waves. She felt someone tugging at her feet, and suddenly she wasn’t being pulled down so heavily. She felt…her toes. Her boots were gone. And she heard a voice. “The coat…dammit, it has to go. We need to lighten you up…”

  She felt like laughing. She wasn’t a ship! But something logical in the back of her mind fought against the shock that had seized her, and she knew the boots would have dragged her down, and she had to hold on and kick to stay afloat.

  The ghosts of the dead had not come for her….

  She was dimly aware of Logan Haggerty’s face, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his amber eyes like strange beacons of fire, anger and determination.

  “Hold on,” he commanded again.

  So she did, managing to wrest herself half out of the water, clinging to what she saw now was a barrel. He was next to her, one arm around her, the other clinging to the barrel literally for dear life.

  The world was dark, the sea a swirling vortex from which there could be no salvation. The rain lashed at them, so cold, until she felt as if her fingers could grip no more…

  Then…

  The banshee wail began to fade.

  “Kick!” he ordered.

  And she tried, oh, God, she tried….

  And after that…

  What seemed hours later, she felt her feet scrape against sand. Then she was standing, struggling, the waves lapping around her feet….

  She staggered forward. The world was still wet and dark and cold.

  She fell.

  But she fell on solid ground.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LOGAN REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY.

  First he heard the waves, gentle now, easing up on the shore. There was a cadence to them, a rhythm. It was pleasant, inducing him to close his eyes again and sleep….

  But then he felt the sand, gritty beneath his cheek and in his clothing, caked along his jaw.

  And there was a breeze. Something balmy, such a pleasant touch, inducing him to forget everything else, to fall asleep and dream.

  There was the sun. Growing warm overhead…

  Suddenly his eyes flew open, and all the force and fury and desperation of the storm returned to him. He remembered.

  Red going over the side.

  Brendan screaming.

  And himself…

  Following her into that storm-tossed hell.

  There had never been a question. He remembered diving over the rail, praying that a sudden wave wouldn’t tilt the ship over on top of him, that he wouldn’t crack his head wide open before he had a chance to save her.

  And then…

  The water. Deep and churning. Violent. He had dived deep, terrified that he would never find her. But he had, and then he had surfaced and found the barrel, and somehow they had both ridden it as the storm raged and finally passed. He had talked to her throughout, but she hadn’t heard him. And he could remember seeing land at last, and kicking for it with the tail end of his strength…

  Well, he had evidently made it. He was alive, judging by the sunshine, the breeze and the gritty sand.

  He sat up.

  His shirt was sodden, molded to his body. His boots were gone. He had one stocking left. He vaguely remembered struggling out of his coat and vest. And Red…He had gotten rid of her boots, as well, tried to rid her of what weight he could. And she…

  Panic suddenly locked his throat and soul.

  Where was she?

  He struggled up, looking around.

  Where the hell was she?

  He looked down the beach and saw the broken barrel that had been their salvation. There was other flotsam and jetsam on the shore, as well.

  But he didn’t see Red.

  He started running barefoot down the beach, his heart pounding furiously as he raced past the barrel and skidded to a stop.

  He exhaled, shaking and falling to his knees at her side. She lay there, clad much as he was himself, torn white shirt, ripped breeches and, amazingly, both stockings. With the wig gone, her eyes closed, her features pale, perfect and fragile, and the radiant color of her hair, she appeared as delicate as a kitten.

  His throat seemed to close again.

  Was she alive?

  He reached out and touched her throat, seeking a pulse.

  It was there.

  As her eyelids began to flutter, he pulled back his trembling fingers.

  Her eyes opened.

  She stared at him in confusion. For a moment her gaze was innocent and questioning….

  Then she bolted up, staring at him in horror, as her hand flew to her head.

  She was looking for that stupid wig.

  He could see in her eyes as it all came back to her.

  The storm…

  Going overboard…

  Then…

  “You!” she gasped.

  He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected her to fall all over him with gratitude for saving her life, but he hadn’t expected such pure horror, either.

  “Me,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “The storm, the ship…remember? Then there was me—jumping overboard to save you.”

  “You…you know who I am.”

  She backed
away from him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Of course I know who you are. Did you hear what I said? Yes, it’s me. The man who jumped overboard to save your hide!”

  She backed away again.

  “I…I am a pirate. I am Red Robert!”

  “Fine, you’re Red Robert. Now stop worrying about the fact that you’ve lost your wig and you’ve very evidently a woman. This may shock you, but I was too busy being concerned about whether you lived or died to care much one way or the other!”

  She stood very tall and wary, and clutched her arms around herself, as if that would somehow disguise her again.

  “Where are we?” she asked suspiciously.

  “On a beach.”

  “The ship?”

  “I don’t know—I dived in after you.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she informed him.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The others?” she asked, her eyes downcast with fear for her crew.

  “She’s a good ship. They probably rode it out.”

  “They’ll come back for us.”

  “We can hope. We can also hope they’ll figure out where we washed ashore.”

  “And now you know,” she said miserably.

  He couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Now I know?”

  She stared at him, stunned.

  “Of course I know. I knew all along.”

  “You did?” she demanded.

  He stared back at her, irritated. His heart had practically broken when he had thought she’d died, and now this.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to take a walk. I’m going to try to figure out if there’s any water on this island.”

  He turned, heading into the tangle of palms and brush that grew not far from the shore. Hopefully that abundance of growth meant there was fresh water somewhere.

  His back was to her, but he could feel her staring after him as he walked. The sand was still cool from the night before and the battering of the storm. He saw that the trees were coconut palms, so at the least they could drink coconut milk and eat the coconut meat.