One Night with a Scoundrel

by Shelly Thacker

  Mercy of the gods! What was happening?

  She could feel the entire ship shudder beneath her. A second explosion shook the Valor. This one shattered the cabin’s mullioned windows. Caught in a spray of flying glass, Ashiana covered her head, screaming. The shards cut into her back and arms like a hundred tiny knives.

  Sheer heart-thundering panic held her frozen, hunched into a small ball. Were they under attack? The other English ship had departed an hour ago!

  The acrid scents of fire and smoke and burning gunpowder filled the air. For a moment she thought she had been knocked unconscious. Thought she was dreaming of that horrifying long-ago day aboard her father’s merchant ship.

  She raised her head. The agony in her shoulder and dozens of bleeding cuts from the glass told her she was very much awake.

  Terror seized her. The door hung at a crazy angle, half blasted off its hinges. Part of the ceiling—above the spot where she had stood seconds before—had caved in. The doorway was completely blocked with smoldering timbers. She could hear screams from the other side.

  Ashiana struggled to her knees. She must get to Nicobar—the sapphires—

  Saxon!

  Gods above, she prayed, please let him be alive! The thought brought her to her feet despite the pain in her limp arm. She clung to the comer of the bookshelf with her good hand, forced herself to remain standing.

  Glass glittered across the floor. Her feet were bare. Quickly, desperately, she grabbed books that had fallen from the shelf and tossed them down in front of her. Using them as stepping stones, she picked her way toward the blocked exit, her heart hammering.

  She gasped for air as bursts of pain threatened to pull her down into blackness. She wrapped her good hand in the folds of her thick gray skirt and, using all her strength, pushed against the heavy, charred beams and pieces of broken wood crisscrossed over the doorway.

  She could not move any of them. And there was no opening large enough for her to squeeze through.

  Icy fear chased down her spine. She was trapped.

  The fire billowed closer. It licked at the timbers with crackling orange tongues.

  “Bachao!” she shouted. “Bachao!”

  She could hear no more screams from the other side. The blaze danced upward along the pile of wood, pouring smoke into the cabin. Coughing, Ashiana shouted for help again. She could not draw a breath for a third cry.

  Air. She needed air. She fell back from the fire, stumbling toward the shattered windows, blinded by the sooty clouds of smoke. She could barely feel the glass that slashed her feet.

  She made it to the window and clung there. The smoke devoured what little fresh air came in through the broken panes. Ashiana fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

  “Saxon,” she sobbed. It was prayer, plea, farewell, regret. “Saxon, bachao.”

  He had taught her the English word for help but she could not remember it.

  In the next instant the Valor heaved over onto one side with a creaking, straining thunder. Ashiana raised her good arm to protect herself as she was thrown against the far wall—with the books, desk, bed, glass and everything else in the cabin.

  A sharp wooden edge struck her head and cut off her scream. Darkness engulfed her.

  “Abandon ship!”

  Seething rage kept Saxon on his feet as he shouted the order again and again, struggling upward through the blazing decks of the capsizing Valor, his shirt and breeches soaked from swimming his way out of the flooded hold.

  He had no business being alive. The first blast would have killed him—if he hadn’t been in that pen with the tiger. The explosion had knocked him flat and blown out one wall of the hidden cargo bay.

  And killed MacNeil.

  Saxon hadn’t been able to save the young Scotsman.

  Or the sapphires, now lost forever.

  The tiger had run snarling from one wall of flames to another—before leaping out a gaping hole that had been blown in the starboard side of the ship. Into the sea. Still wearing the sapphires in its tattered collar.

  Except for the one that Saxon, miraculously, still had. He had been holding it so tightly, even the explosion hadn’t knocked it from him. He had stuffed the stone into his pocket.

  “Abandon ship!” he shouted hoarsely. He couldn’t think of anything now but saving those left alive.

  He pulled himself upward, hand over hand on the ladder, toward the main hatch. There was no light above, only thick black smoke that blocked out the setting sun.

  He had to use every bit of his strength to lever himself out and onto the deck. The ship was tilted at a wild angle, the mainmast snapped like a branch, sails and rigging dragging in the water. She was sinking fast.

  The few crewmen left alive had obeyed the order to abandon ship. Most of the boats were down and away. Heading for the Phoenix. He could see her in the distance, coming about in the blaze of sunset.

  Rage and disbelief snapped through him. Greyslake was going to play the hero and rescue the survivors of this “unfortunate accident.” Bastard. Taking vengeance by fire. An eye for an eye. He should have guessed.

  Saxon ran toward the stern, leaning forward to make up for the steep slope of the deck, toward a group of sailors helping the wounded into one of the last boats.

  Toward the aft hatch that led to the cabins below.

  He stopped, seized by indecision. Chest heaving, he cursed, feeling overpowering fury at the loss of his ship, at Greyslake.

  At Ashiana.

  Every word out of her mouth had been a lie! She had been working with his enemies all along. The seductive little thief had kept him distracted in bed while she kept the sapphires hidden—not only the one she had stolen from him but all the sapphires. Damn her! How in the hell had she managed to secure the other eight?

  Was she one of Greyslake’s hired mercenaries? Was that why the bastard had been so intent on taking her with him—until Saxon interfered?

  Or had she been in league with the Ajmir from the beginning?

  Saxon stood frozen at the top of the steps. He should leave her behind. Leave her to her fate in the fire.

  If she wasn’t dead already.

  One jump carried him down into the companionway and then he was running for his cabin through a choking, blinding fog of smoke.

  There wasn’t time to question what he was doing. Flames and a pile of timber—he didn’t know how thick—completely blocked the door. He heard no screams from inside. She might have been killed by the explosions.

  Shielding his face with one arm, he crouched low and threw himself into the wall of fire. It sizzled on his wet clothes. He grabbed the nearest beam and pulled. It burned his hands but didn’t budge.

  One thick plank supported all the rest. He bent down and threw his shoulder against it. He put every ounce of his strength into the exertion, shouting. Sweat poured down his face, stung his eyes. It felt like the muscles in his back would tear apart. He could smell his singed hair and clothes.

  At last the wood, already damaged, snapped in half. The others balanced atop it fell. Saxon jumped back and barely avoided being crushed.

  It cleared just enough of an opening at the top for him to squeeze through. Coughing on smoke, he climbed onto the flaming timbers, ignoring the heat, the pain from dozens of burns. He made it up and over and leaped down into his cabin.

  The room was black with smoke. He gripped the edge of the broken door to keep himself upright on the sharply angled deck, crouching low so he could breathe and see.

  Everything had crashed into a broken heap against the far wall. He could make out the edge of Ashiana’s gray woolen gown beneath the crush. She wasn’t moving. His heart clenched.

  He shouted her name and let go of the door before he had time to draw a breath or even think of how little time was left.

  Before the smoke consumed the last of the air.

  Before the fire made escape impossible.

  Before the sea swallowed the Valor and him with it.

/>   Instinct and brute strength took over. He tore into the pile, shoving aside broken pieces of wood and smashed furnishings. He cut his hands on shards of glass that covered everything and never felt it.

  He breathed more soot than air. It nearly made him black out. He held his breath. Smoke made vision impossible, but he kept digging. His starved, seared lungs felt like they would burst.

  Finally he uncovered her. She had fallen between the bed and the wall. The mattress, wedged against her, had protected her from the worst of it—but she had dozens of cuts and was bleeding badly from a wound in her scalp. He pulled her free. She was barely breathing. It felt like her left arm was broken.

  Lifting her from the rubble, holding her in his arms, he turned toward the doorway.

  It was too late.

  The fire had blown back in their direction. It blazed up the entire wall, crackled along the ceiling, blasted the cabin with killing heat. They were both dead if they didn’t get out now.

  He shifted Ashiana onto his shoulder and climbed over the debris toward the smashed windows. He gripped the ledge and chopped wildly at the twisted bits of wood that had held the panes, breaking an opening large enough. Outside, night had fallen.

  The furniture was in flames now, the bedclothes, his books. The hem of Ashiana’s skirt caught fire. He smothered it with his bare hand.

  There was no time left. He lifted her onto his back, wrapped her good arm around his neck, and held on tight. He levered himself up onto the ledge and squeezed through the opening. Bits of glass ripped at his belly and legs.

  He balanced on the edge for a second, kicked free, and they both fell.

  There wasn’t even time for a deep breath. They smashed into the water. The impact wrenched Ashiana from his hands. Sinking with her, he grabbed for her and missed.

  He was buoyed upward, but her heavy woolen dress pulled her under. Diving, he tried again, catching her wrist, but the waves and the pull of the sinking ship dragged her away.

  His tortured lungs demanded air. Saxon kicked upward. He broke the surface amid a tossing, floating chaos of planks and rigging and debris. Taking a great heaving gasp, he choked on a mouthful of salt water and smoke.

  He dove again—and could not find her.

  The Valor was almost entirely under water now, five hundred tons sinking like a stone, pulling everything in its wake with it. The ship bled great black billows of smoke that turned the sea into pitch. Saxon dove and turned and swam through the dark water and found nothing.

  His meager gasp of air had run out. Consciousness wavered. If he took the time to swim for the surface again, she would be dead.

  It was his life or hers.

  Shafts of sunlight gleamed through the shifting fronds far overhead. Ashiana squeezed her eyes shut to block out the brightness and winced at the throbbing in her temple. The pain brought a shock of awareness.

  She was alive.

  And on land.

  Her heart hammered as everything came flooding back: the explosions, the fire, the Valor tossing onto one side…and then blackness.

  How had she escaped the ship? How had she come to be here—and where exactly was she?

  The raucous songs of birds, the low buzz of insects, and the scent of the sea all competed in the humid air. She could feel sandy ground beneath her. Slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes again, shading them with one hand. A hundred hot pinpricks from the bits of glass in her back and arms made the movement painful. She could feel dried blood on her forehead. Her hair was damp and matted.

  Giant sal trees towered around her, enormous gray sentinels wrapped with vines. Turning her head, she could see that she was in a forest clearing. A jungle of cool green leaves thwarted the sun’s heat. The thick undergrowth reflected every shade of emerald, a tangle of broad, flat leaves rioting with wild orchids in brilliant reds and purples. From somewhere overhead she could hear the screech of a monkey.

  It almost looked like…home, like the Andamans. But that could not be.

  She tried to sit up. Her left shoulder still hurt like Shiva the Destroyer’s vengeance, but she found she could move her arm. It no longer hung limp. As she lifted herself to one elbow, her head pounded fiercely.

  Her groan choked into a fit of coughing. She could taste the sooty, salty bitterness of smoke and seawater. Her throat and mouth felt burned. She would have given anything in that moment for the smallest sip of something cool to soothe the painful dryness. Shaking and weak, she managed to sit up. It was then that she noticed her clothes—her English gow-oon was gone! She wore only her kor-set and the tattered remnants of her pet-ee-koot, one edge of it singed.

  Another coughing spasm seized her and suddenly her stomach heaved. Falling to her side, she retched, choking up salt water. She wiped her mouth with one trembling hand.

  Food and the bleeding cut on her forehead could wait, but she must have water. Perhaps whoever had brought her here had gone to find some.

  Please, by all the gods, had it been Saxon who had saved her? Was he alive? Was he all right?

  Praying that it might be true, Ashiana sat up again, more slowly this time. She carefully picked bits of glass out of her feet, biting her lip against the pain. Her soles were badly cut. Leaning against a tree for support, she stood. Lush green undergrowth carpeted parts of the forest floor. She gingerly took a step toward a patch.

  “Saxon?” she called. Another fit of coughing shook her. Feeling dizzy, she bent her head.

  Only then did she see the footprints in the sandy soil. Deep, large prints made by a man.

  Feeling a surge of hope, she started to follow them, supporting herself on trees and vines as she went, wincing with each step. Someone had cleared a path through the tangled plants.

  She had only gone a short distance into the trees when she saw him, coming through the forest toward her.

  “Saxon!” Ashiana felt such heart-soaring relief that she would have thrown herself into his arms, but his expression stole the joy from her heart.

  Regarding her with a hard glare, he stopped in his tracks. And didn’t say a word.

  He wore only his breeches. He had jagged cuts on his legs and stomach and burns all over his shoulders and arms. And he was covered with dirt, especially his hands.

  “A-are you all right?” she asked, confused. “What hap—”

  “Sabotage.”

  He fired the single word like a pistol shot. Ashiana flinched at his harsh tone. But his fury over the destruction of his ship at the hands of his enemy, the na-vee captain he had called Greyslake, was understandable. “Your crew?” she whispered. “Mr. MacNeil, Mr. Wyatt—”

  “MacNeil is dead,” he bit out, still not moving any closer. “I don’t know about Wyatt. Only a few men escaped in the boats.”

  “Oh, Saxon…” Ashiana hung her head, anguished at the thought of Mr. MacNeil and the others dying so horribly. Her own pain was so little compared to that. “Maf kijiye, I am sorry. So very sorry. H-how did you…how did we—”

  “We almost didn’t escape. I got you out of the cabin and went over the side but the pull of the ship separated us. It was only pure luck that I found you again before we both drowned. I tore that damned dress off you and grabbed onto a chunk of planking and started swimming. When the sun came up, I saw this island.”

  Ashiana winced at his rapid-fire explanation. She raised her head and held his gaze, letting her gratitude shine through in her eyes. Swimming all night with those wounds must have tested the limits of his strength and endurance. He had risked his life to save hers.

  He was in pain. So many kinds of pain. That explained his surly attitude. “But you…you haven’t seen anyone else?”

  “Bits and pieces of my ship have been washing up on shore all day.” His jaw clenched. “But no one alive.”

  Ashiana shuddered at his meaning. That was why he was covered with dirt. She remembered hearing once that Europeans buried their dead.

  Horror at it all overwhelmed her, but beneath it she felt gr
ateful to the gods for sparing his life. “D-did you mend my shoulder somehow?” She moved her left arm experimentally. “I thought it was broken.”

  “Your arm was pulled from the socket. I snapped it back into place. You should be fine,” he said curtly.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “How did you know how to do that?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. The entire forest around them seemed to go silent.

  “The healer I knew, in the village at the edge of the Thar desert, the one who saved my life.” His tone became icy. “I learned a few things from her.” As suddenly as he had appeared, Saxon turned and walked back the way he had come. “I only returned to the clearing to see if you were still breathing. Clearly you are. I have important matters to attend to.”

  Perplexed, Ashiana watched him, then followed. “Have you found any fresh water? Do you think we might be rescued?”

  “No, I haven’t, and no I don’t.” He kept walking, not slowing his long-legged stride. “The ship wasn’t expected back at Daman for weeks. By the time anyone even notices it’s missing, we could be here a very long time.”

  “But won’t the—” She struggled to pronounce the word correctly. “—the na-vee ship send out men to search?”

  He muttered an English curse. “The na-vee already picked up the survivors. They probably think I went down with the Valor. My men saw me go below just before she sank.”

  “Is it not possible that someone on another ship saw the fire?”

  “We’re in one of the main trade routes but there aren’t many ships at sea this time of year,” he snapped. “Now leave me alone.”

  Ashiana stopped trying to keep up with him. Her feet were too painful to walk so fast. And the cut on her forehead had started bleeding again. Breathing hard, she leaned against a tree.

  She could not help feeling hurt by Saxon’s attitude. She knew he was in pain, and angry and grieving over what had happened to his ship and his crew…but why was he directing such hostility at her?

  He had saved her life at great cost to himself, but now it almost seemed as if he didn’t care about her at all. It was as if…as if the tenderness they had shared aboard the Valor had never happened.