He flopped back into the beam, taken aback. Coire should not be surprised. Her actions toward him were as clear as the waters off the Barbados shore. But to hear the words spoken tilted his world off its axis. Suddenly, what was an immediate need to save a girl flipped to a critical demand. He had to know if it was true, hear the words from her lips, see it in her verdant green eyes. And he would do whatever it took for that chance.
“She will feel the warmth of the Caribbean sun. This I promise.”
“A pirate. The irony…” Duncan chuckled, and he paid for it. But his grin gave way to seriousness. “Ye save her, ye take good care of her. She has been hunted for too long. Treva needs someone to look after her. To tame, or the very least, match her. Are ye the man to do it?”
Coire would make a pact with the devil to be that man.
“The bastard!” Coire marched down the Kelpie’s deck now wet from sea spray. They had set their course south down the Firth of Clyde halfway between Malig and Taylough when they were intercepted by another ship. When the Damned Jewel was within range, she fired a shot. It missed his ship by a mere few feet. ’Twas enough to indicate that was no warning shot. Captain Dread had meant a direct hit.
“Mr. Shaw!” Coire called. “Clear the lashing from the guns. Prepare for battle.”
Mr. Shaw nodded and raced off to give orders to the bosuns.
Coire pointed to the helmsman. “Keep her steady. Broadside.”
Jonesy strode up and handed him a long gun and gunpowder. “What’s he doing?”
“Starting a fucking war.” He quickly loaded, set it down, and checked his pistols.
“To what end? He’ll make an enemy of many. Not just here, but of our Caribbean brethren.”
“Dinna think he cares. Eliminate us, prove a point—he and his followers rule these waters.”
“Sod that.” Jonesy leaned another primed long gun against the bulkhead. “Let’s prove ’em wrong.”
Coire was not wasting time on proving anything. His woman was in danger. But he wasna going to cut and run, either. “We aim to disable him.”
Jonesy scrunched his face.
“’Twould be an insult he’d have a hard time overcoming,” he explained. “Make it known he can be defeated.” Sound reasoning, but really he needed to get to Treva. And Dread was keeping him from doing just that.
“He may be feared here, but we’ve experience on our side.” A true fact attested from years of smuggling, privateering, and overall survival in the warmer waters near the equator. “If we sink him in the process, so be it.” Coire snapped up his long rifle, peering at the rapidly closing distance between the ships. If he got a clear shot between the bastard’s deadlights, he sure as hell would take it. “Let’s make quick work of it.”
The air shook from a shot taken by the Damned Jewel. A spray of water rose near mid-ship. Coire hollered up to Jacob. “Three points starboard, then back!” He called out to Mr. Shaw. “On the up-roll, fire one, fire three!”
Kelpie swung out and as she rose up on a lofty swell, Mr. Shaw gave the order. The ship rocked from her powerful guns. Smoke from the ports caught on the breeze. One shot landed off the Jewel’s prow, the other smashed across her forecastle.
Spent gunpowder filled Coire’s lungs. The fiery excitement of battle coursed through his veins. He would never tire of it.
Dread fired again but just missed Kelpie as she angled back toward him, the shot whizzing past the stern.
“Bring her broadside! Two and four, fire at the waterline!”
The deck shivered under his feet as the guns unloaded. A direct hit blasted a hole into the other ship well above the waves. ’Twouldn’t sink it, but was enough to put the Jewel in danger in high seas.
Coire marched down the railing, watching for the captain he longed to take aim at, giving orders to pick off pirates of rank. Shot from the enemy ruptured the gunwale to his right, splinters exploding in every direction. “Shite!” Coire flinched, turning away from the deadly projectiles.
“Fire at will!”
He nabbed a passing bosun. “Give ’em grenados. Set that bucket aflame.”
The bosun nodded with an emphatic grin and ran off delivering orders over the relentless booms of the two ships’ guns.
Coire scanned the Damned Jewel’s decks through the rising smoke until he found her captain. Dread whipped around, pointing and shouting at his grisly men. As if he sensed Coire’s stare, he stopped and turned to look directly at him. Time seemed to slow with the smirk creeping across his greasy, scraggly, bearded face. Coire returned the smile before raising up his long gun and pulling the trigger. The wood of the mast beside the louse’s head shattered. Dread snapped his head back with a glower that could reach across the span between them and rip out his heart. Coire lowered his gun and cocked his chin, a promise he’d do better with the next shot.
Pops of gunfire, booms from shipboard guns, and shouts from men rent the air. Smoke thickened, could be tasted on the tongue. Wood creaked and rattled. The cacophony was quickening, a thrilling reminder of life and death.
As the ships passed midway, several grenados landed upon Dread’s deck and burst into explosions of fire. The Damned Jewel’s crew raced around in a futile effort to put out the fires as more fireballs were launched onto the decks. Within moments, flames licked up the ship’s sails.
Attack from the Jewel died as the pirates concentrated on saving their ship. Kelpie’s crew erupted in cheers. Coire saluted to Dread as the captain gripped the railing of his faltering ship with a gruesome snarl. If the arsehole made it out alive, he’d seek revenge. Coire would welcome it. But not before he made sure Treva was rescued, safe from anymore danger.
Jonesy sidled up beside him. “Made quick work of it, we did.”
“The men?” Coire tore his gaze away from the Jewel to assess the damage of his own ship.
“A few injuries that I know of. Mostly from flying shivers.”
Coire kicked at a piece of railing and scanned the masts and yards. “The hull?”
“We took a few direct hits. Nothing we can’t repair.” Jonesy tucked a pistol in his waistband. “Nothing that will slow us from reaching Man.”
“Any spare man not working the sheets should report to Nicolas. Shore up and repair as much as can be done. I want no weaknesses. We dinna know what we’ll be up against once we get to Man.”
“Aye.” Jonesy jogged off just as Mr. Shaw appeared.
“Lash the guns, but be prepared to meet more resistance.”
“We gonna see more hot action?” The barrel-chested old sea tar scratched at his graying chin with a serpentine grin.
“No pompous poxed labberneck will stop me from saving the lass.”
Mr. Shaw’s grin split to show his nubby teeth. “I reckon not.”
“What?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Why are ye still grinning at me, then?”
“Just ain’t never seen ye in love before.”
Coire groaned. “Piss off.”
Mr. Shaw guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder as he passed by to see to the guns.
Coire took one last look at the Damned Jewel. Burning sails had been cut and fluttered to the sea, gray smoke spiraling into the sky. The wretch’s crew was acting quickly. They had a fair chance at saving the pirate ship from being destroyed. Coire hoped this would be the last time he saw Dread. But he doubted it.
He spun on his heel and retreated back to his empty cabin and unfinished bottle of arrack. By this time tomorrow, if not sooner, they’d reach Man and he’d launch a rescue mission. There was nothing to do now but wait out the rest of the journey and pray he made it in time.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Captain Pullings said you were to stay in this cell until they were, uh, ready for ya in the mornin’.” The British soldier squirmed on the stool which was placed directly across from her cell door. The poor lad was a mere summer younger than she, which made her wonder if he’d been pressed into service. He would have to
be ambitious to climb any rank. By the way he worried his fingers around the barrel of his musket standing between his legs, he wasna that aspiring. And he was probably scared of what Pullings could do to him.
“I understand, Lansing. Yer captain would not have put ye in charge of such an important duty as to watch over a helpless woman behind a locked door if you weren’t up for the challenge.” Treva should be ashamed of herself. Lansing had been welcome company, and here she was blistering him with vaguely masked affronts. She’d been trying to trick him into letting her out of her cell so that she might feel the sunlight on her face one last time with a stroll on deck. Of course, she’d meant to earn his trust and get an idea of where they were anchored so she could make a plan of escape.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“Me, too.” She dropped her head and sighed. “Me, too.”
Coire dropped over the Invictus’ railing into a crouch, landing with a soft thud. A quick glance up to the topsails revealed his arrival hadn’t alerted the watchman. Gentle creaks of plank and taut rope and the whispers of the slumbering sea were the only sounds. He looked over the edge to the jollyboat bobbing in the black water. Though he couldn’t see their faces in the dark, he signaled to Jonesy and Redd. They’d remain close. But if spotted, they had been ordered back to Kelpie anchored just out of sight around the small isle’s rocky breakwater.
He slunk along the shadows. Took the ladder below deck with slow steps. Having been acquainted with the inside of a Royal Navy frigate after an unfortunate mishap of getting caught, Coire had an idea where he would find Treva. He made his way to the rear. Voices carried down the companionway. Footfalls neared. Coire ducked behind a twenty-four pounder gun. He couldn’t be discovered. He couldn’t fail. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Two men walked past unawares. As they climbed the steps to a higher deck, he crept deeper into the ship’s belly.
Voices, one female, lead him to a closed door. Treva was in there, but how many others were in there with her? His entry would have to be swift, precise. Coire drew his pistol from the brace strapped across his chest and burst inside. It took a mere heartbeat to assess only one man guarded his lass. The soldier startled from his stool and found himself staring down the barrel of Coire’s gun. He was fairly certain the poor lad soiled himself.
“Hello, again.” Coire managed a polite grin, though it might have seemed malicious to the man. “Lansing, is it?”
The soldier nodded, his affirmation stuck in his throat.
Coire spared a glance at Treva gripping the bars. She appeared unscathed, and just as shocked as Lansing.
“Well, Lansing, ye would like to stay alive, yes?” Another near imperceptible nod. “Put down yer weapon. Good man.” He ticked his head toward the cell, his pistol still trained on the soldier. “Unlock it.”
Lansing did as he was told and freed Treva.
Coire handed the pistol to her. She needed no instruction to keep it pointed at the fellow. He snatched off a pair of shackles from a hook and clapped them on the man. “Let’s get ye inside.” He snapped up the man’s musket and followed him into the cell.
“I’m sorry, Lansing.” By Treva’s tone, she sincerely meant it. “Take care of yerself.”
“Good luck.” More sincerity. ’Twas the last words Lansing said before Coire slammed the butt of the long gun into his temple, knocking him out.
Coire locked the cell door and when he turned she launched herself into his arms. By God, she felt good—warm, yielding, alive. He kissed her thoroughly and hugged her tighter. ’Twould take death to pull him away from her now. And that was a high possibility if they didna get off the ship soon.
“Ye came for me,” she said against his chest. “How did ye know?”
“Duncan.”
She peered up, sadness dragging down her frown. “Is he…?”
“He took a powerful beating, but he’ll survive.”
Treva sagged against him, a hiccup in her sigh of relief.
“We haven’t much time.” He took his pistol from her, shoved it back into his brace, and grabbed her hand. “Stay close.”
They stole from the room, down the companionway, and up the ladder. He opened the hatch and they slunk into the crisp night. This escape, it had been too easy. It shouldn’t have been this easy.
“Halt!”
Ah…there it was. And now the fun began.
He turned to an advancing pair of soldiers. ’Twould be easy enough to dispatch them with a firearm, but the last thing he needed was to awaken the entire ship full of armed men. Not yet. And he really didna want to kill the men. They were not his immediate enemy. He didna need the entire Royal Navy hunting them down before leaving Scotland. But he would do what was necessary.
Coire twirled his cutlass, a clear indication he would not surrender, but fight. “Stay behind me,” he warned Treva.
“Who the devil—”
“That’s the snake Captain Fletcher.”
Coire couldn’t give them time to sound an alarm. He drew his dagger lunged forward on the offensive, swinging his cutlass to catch upon the men’s blades as they countered with haste. The men separated, one on either side of him. His veins pumped furiously with the fire of the fight to come. Sword to sword, two on one. He loved the odds.
The first soldier swung his weapon, but Coire blocked it with his dagger and quickly followed through with a slice of his cutlass across the man’s side. The bloke hissed and stumbled back. Coire spun around to his left in time to catch the thrust of the second soldier’s weapon. He twisted his dagger, deflecting the sword down. But the soldier hopped away before he, too, could feel the sting of Coire’s cutlass. As fast as he backed away, he came forward, assailing Coire with swing after swing. Coire parried, pivoted, parried again, passed back, all while giving the soldier a false sense of besting him.
But this was no time for swordplay. The clanging of metal reverberated up his arm, up into the shrouds. Soon, the topman sounded an alarm. ’Twould be moments before the deck would be swarming with British fighters.
Coire caught the man’s next swing between his dagger and cutlass. Stepping into the soldier with his blade trapped, Coire slammed his elbow into his face. The force of the blow snapped his head back. Blood spurt from his crunched nose. Coire pushed him, kicking him hard enough in the chest to fling him across the deck onto his back.
“Coire! Look out!”
The first soldier recovered enough to answer Coire’s initial strike, swinging at his flank. Blood bloomed around the jagged edge of the tar’s shirt. Anguish pulled upon his ashen face as he darted forward, his blade pointed straight from his extended arm. Coire twirled his sword, drawing the man’s attention to the flash of steel. As he thrust forward, the man anticipated the move and blocked. But he hadn’t anticipated Coire’s simultaneous lower stab with his dagger. The shorter blade slid easily into the giving flesh of the cove’s thigh. He went down to his knees just as a hatch door flung open and soldiers filed out, including a disheveled Captain Pullings.
Coire shoved his dagger into his belt and spun to Treva, wide-eyed and frozen in place. He grabbed her arm as he raced past.
A shot cracked the night. And another. Wood splintered off the mast they darted around. Shite! Coire yanked her behind the ship’s massive wheel for cover. She cowered beside him panting wildly from near panic.
“We’re trapped!”
He shook his head, drew his pistol from his brace. He just needed to buy a few precious seconds. “Run for the gunwale. Jump overboard. I’ll cover you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are ye mad?”
“Better mad than dead. I’ll be right behind you.” In a single powerful whack with his cutlass, he chopped the helm’s rope. The taut line snapped loose, rendering the Invictus’ wheel, tiller, and rudder useless.
“Go, now!”
Treva bolted for the side of the ship. She trusted Coire with her every breath, which she could hardly draw for the fear lodged in her chest. Half
way to the edge, the exchange of gunfire popped rapidly. Flashes blinked at the edge of her vision. She expected to feel instant pain. None came and she pumped her legs harder.
“Spare the prisoner! Kill the pirate!” The captain’s command mingling with the echoing bursts frightened her all the more.
She reached the railing, climbed up. The dark water was so far down, a dizzying depth. Not far away, she spotted a longboat. That had to be part of Coire’s plan.
“Don’t let her jump!”
Treva glanced back. Soldiers raced toward her from the left, Coire from behind yelling for her to go.
Without a thought or prayer, she jumped off the ship feet first. Her skirts billowed wide as she fell. She closed her eyes tight waiting for impact, the plunge into the cold water snatched away the breath she held. New terrors shuffled through her mind as she plummeted deep beneath the waves—sharks, sea monsters, and drowning. Had she come full circle, back to that first night she met Coire, when she ruptured a hole into her dinghy determined to board his ship? Would she survive?
Treva broke the surface, gasping for air, coughing on the brine burning her nose and throat. She gathered her bearings, paddling to stay afloat, fighting the sting in her eyes. Jonesy called her name, a shadowy silhouette of a man in a boat not too far away waved.
Coire! She looked up in time to see him on the rail. His body jerked as he seemingly stepped overboard. My god! He had been shot! Soldiers immediately lined up at the edge and took aim. “No!”
He splashed nearby, but she couldn’t see him over the swells, couldn’t locate where to swim to find him. “Coire! Coire!” It was no use. It was too dark, the crests of water too high.
A salvo of pops echoed from the ship. A bullet plunked in the water beside her. Heaven help us!
She swam toward the sounds of Jonesy’s frantic shouts, fought against her rising hysterics. Bullets pelted the water around her. Spare the prisoner her arse! Treva threw her arms ahead of her one after the other to pull herself through the currents, kicking wildly. Damn it, she would get to that boat.
Righteous Side of the Wicked: Pirates of Britannia Page 14