by Julia Knight
Paul could hear Wagstaff long before he and Matthew saw the office. By the time they entered, the admiral’s anger seemed to have abated somewhat, though his cheeks were still near purple with rage. All the available commanders were there with him.
“Ah, glad you could join us,” Wagstaff snapped as Matthew and Paul found room at the back of the office. “We’re leaving today, as soon as all ships in port can be made ready. We can’t wait for the rest. They’ll have to follow as and when they come in.”
“Why the sudden rush?” asked one of the more senior captains. “We were all set to leave in three days. Some of our best ships still haven’t returned. We’d be fools to go now.”
Wagstaff turned on him. “Because I bloody well say so!” He took a deep breath, clenched his hands into fists behind him and paced. “If we don’t leave today, they’ll be gone, if they aren’t already.”
“Why would they suddenly leave? Your man tells us it’s a permanent base, more or less. Why leave that behind?”
Wagstaff stopped his pacing, and his gaze fell on Paul. Fear crept through Paul’s belly in an icy chill. There was something about that look…
“Because we’ve an informant in port. I’m bloody sure of it. And if they know we’re coming, and when, they’ll be off before you can say jackrabbit.”
Wagstaff still stared his way, and the fear dropped from Paul’s belly down to his balls, which shriveled from the chill. Wagstaff turned away, and Paul could breathe again.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it!”
The commanders ran from the office to ready their ships. Paul hesitated—he had no ship to get ready, or even the notion of whether he was to stay here. Wagstaff waited till the rest were gone before he barked his orders. “Ambury, I want you and that prisoner on board my flagship and ready to leave in under twenty minutes.”
Paul’s heart skipped a beat. He’d be going, and he didn’t know which he wanted more—to see the Newquay or to see Catherine. Or which loss he feared more. “You want him to come too?”
“He’s given us the location, and more besides, but I’d feel happier about it if he was with us. He’s the one told us about the pirates’ informant, though he didn’t give a name, damn the man. As for you, I’ll need someone to captain the Newquay when we get her out of their clutches. You got the information out of him, and he’s been most forthcoming. If we catch them and get your frigate back, that might go some way toward mitigating your punishment come the court-martial. Well, don’t just stand there!”
“Aye, sir.” Paul ran for the cells.
Ten days later at sunset, they were within striking range, a mile or so up the coast from where Fulton said the pirate base was. They were waiting for dark before they attacked—a volley of shot out of the night should surprise anyone.
Paul barely slept the whole ten days. Every time they spied a ship on the horizon ahead, his heart clenched. She couldn’t have had more than two or three hours head start, at best. He didn’t know whether he wanted Catherine to be gone when they got there, to have escaped once more, or whether he wanted the Newquay still there. Catherine still there. If he could have both, then maybe he could be content, but Fulton was adamant. Catherine had the Newquay now. It was hers, another ship in her fleet, and she wouldn’t give it up lightly. There had to be a way out of this, but if there was he couldn’t see it.
He shut his eyes against the exhaustion and reveled in the feel of the sea under him, the creak of the rigging, the shouts of the crew. The changes in the feel of the frigate whenever the wind shifted, as though she were alive and talking to him. He was as close to home as he could be without the Newquay.
“Ambury!” Wagstaff’s bellow sliced through his thoughts. He’d been insufferable the whole trip. Worse, whenever he looked at Paul, Paul was sure the admiral was searching his face for signs of guilt. But Paul’s threats had kept Fulton’s lips shut. So far.
Paul pushed away from the rail reluctantly and made his way to the admiral’s quarters. “Sir?”
All the commanders were gathered there, poring over a detailed map that Paul had managed to threaten out of Fulton. Wagstaff looked up at him as he entered. “As you’ve managed to get Fulton to cooperate so willingly, I’ve got a nice job for you, Ambury.”
“Yes, sir?” Paul didn’t like the sound of that.
“See here on the map? This was a settlement, abandoned twenty years or so ago—raided by pirates I don’t doubt. Not so big, but big enough for this lot. Solid buildings. They’ve five ships, your man says, and we’ve eight, and we’re taking the buggers by surprise. Good odds on that, but we need someone to take out the cannon they’ve got along here.” He pointed to a section of the map where the curve of the bay jutted out to sea. “Whoever this chap is, he’s not stupid. It’s a narrow inlet, probably why they’ve never been spotted before. So narrow that one ship at a time barely makes it through. That cannon has range right across the bay, manned at all times—they’ll fire long before any of their ships can be brought to bear.”
“So you want me to take it out?”
“That’s the plan. You’re the only officer here with no ship to command. Instead, take a longboat and some men and see what you can do to disable that cannon. Once you’re done, fire a shot into their ships as a signal. Think you can do it?”
There was no other answer but, “Aye, sir.”
“Good. Now our man says that the main caravel, the Wicked Lady, always berths here.” He indicated a point in the small harbour. “We’ll be going for that one first, so aim your shot there if you can. The longboat’s ready and waiting. Take whichever men you like.”
Paul strode out of Wagstaff’s quarters and set about finding the right men for the job. Several of his crew were aboard—they’d been split among the remaining ships. He rounded up half a dozen and added a couple of ratings he knew to be good in a fight. They launched the longboat just as the sun touched the horizon.
By the time they’d beached the boat and clambered, sweating and swearing, up the first thickly wooded hill, it was fully dark. Light flickered between the leaves of the trees, a small fire set behind an outcrop so it couldn’t be seen from sea. It showed them their way unerringly.
They stumbled in the shadows that drifted among the trees. Paul hissed at the men to be quiet as they neared, but it was all but impossible. Finally, when they were only yards away, he had them take cover in the darkness of the undergrowth before they were heard.
The brazier that lit their way stood on a rough stone shelf, sheltered from the sea by an overhang. In the pool of darkness beyond the light, Paul could just make out the glint of metal. The cannon. He watched for some minutes, waiting till his eyes were used to the light to check the lay of the land. At least four men stood watch, two by the cannon, one at the brazier and another who paced around the whole outcrop at intervals.
He beckoned to one of his most experienced men and nodded at the patroller. His man grinned, nodded and slunk off into the bushes. With hand signals so as not to be heard, Paul indicated where the rest should attack. In moments the three guards were dead and his men priming the cannon. Paul hurried over to them and looked down the almost sheer slope into the bay.
The settlement was well lit, with lanterns hung outside every house. There was some sort of uproar, people running here and there in panic. Catherine had made it here before them, then, even if only just.
Four ships stood in a wide bay. There she was: the Newquay. They’d taken her figurehead off and altered the rigging, but it was she. He’d know her in his sleep. Paul grinned in the dark as his men finished priming the cannon. Before they could fire it at the only other ship as large as the Newquay, a muffled grunt followed by a liquid scream behind him made him turn, his sword at the ready.
The man he’d sent after the patroller fell from the top of the outcrop and crunched to the stone beside the brazier, his eyes wide and staring, blood frothing at his throat. A bullet zinged off the rock at Paul’s
feet, and he leapt to one side without thinking, halfway along the narrow path before the corpse had finished moving.
Three of his men came up, only half a step behind him, and they burst out onto the top of the outcrop to be confronted by two more pirates. An extra lookout post. Almost as soon as he was clear of the rock, a sword sliced past Paul’s face. He was only just quick enough to dodge and parry. The pirate’s blade skittered along his own and jammed into his upper arm. With a harsh cry of pain, Paul pulled free, barreled into the man and sent him to the stone. The man struggled beneath him, but Paul’s greater weight kept him pinned.
To his left, his men fought with the second pirate. A sword ran the man through, but not before he threw something into the brazier below. The pirate beneath Paul laughed, got a fist free and slammed it into the wound in his arm. Paul released his grip with a yelp of pain, and they wrestled for a moment before two of Paul’s men dragged the pirate away and slit his throat.
Paul hauled himself to his feet, his breath coming in hard gasps that were more excitement than fear.
“Sir!” one of the men below called. Paul looked over the outcrop just as the brazier exploded in a shower of hot metal and flame. Damn it all! Gunpowder—a signal.
“Fire the cannon now! And we’d best get out of here quickly.” Paul checked his arm. Not too bad a cut, but bleeding freely.
The cannon roared just as he and his men came down from the outcrop. The shot went wide, missing the carrack they’d aimed for but blasting through a coarse house at the end of the street. Paul grinned. Now that was a signal.
Then he heard the thin screams on the wind, and his smile faded. There weren’t just pirates here, those screams told him. There were their families too. That wasn’t what he’d expected. Not what he’d signed up for.
“Sir, more on their way. There, coming up the hill.”
The rating pointed down into the dark, but the exploding brazier had destroyed his night vision and Paul could see little. He heard them, though.
“Keep firing the cannon. And try to hit the bloody ship this time. It’s big enough! The rest of you, with me.”
Without even waiting to see them move, Paul was off down the slope. The top part of the path cut across an almost sheer slope, high mud and rock one way, a sharp drop to the bay on the other. They’d be caught like fish in a barrel there. Farther down, he could make out the dark shapes of trees overhanging the path. If they could get there, get off the path, maybe they’d have a chance.
The cannon roared above them again, spewing flame and metal over the bay. It should have hit the ship they’d aimed at—but its sails were up now and it swung about. It ignored the cannon on the hill and faced its own guns toward the entrance to the bay.
They made it to the trees, and Paul jumped off the path. The slope fell away more steeply than he’d thought, and he grabbed at a tree. His feet scrabbled in the mud as he almost lost his grip and nearly tumbled down to the bay before he caught his balance. Cursing erupted around him as his men fought the hill.
A group of men shouting in a mix of French, Spanish and the odd word of English came up the hill, swords and pistols drawn. Paul and his men weren’t far enough off the path or quiet enough for them to miss. No chance of surprise.
Using the tree as leverage, Paul heaved himself up and launched himself at the closest of the pirates. The fight was short but brutal. Two pirates and one of his men fell screaming down the steep slope, their descent blocked by trees that snapped the men’s limbs before they ended in the bay. Paul and his last two men stood over the rest, gasping for breath in the humid air. The roar of guns echoed across the bay. The navy was here. No chance now to help Catherine, find her, make her change her mind. Only time for obedience, and God help him if he didn’t obey.
Paul and his men leapt down the path toward the settlement. By the time they reached the street, fully half the buildings were in flames. Men ran to and fro, making for the ships or grabbing loved ones from the wreckage. Paul’s gaze was on only one thing: the Newquay.
One of the pirate ships was already alight in her sails, but she stood intact at the entrance to the harbour, effectively blocking it and firing at the navy with all guns. The cannon his men had commandeered fired once more and caught the main pirate ship a blow on the foremast. Wood screamed under stress, and the mast fell to the deck. A familiar figure darted forward and dragged a man from under the wreckage. Catherine. At the sight of her, the Newquay was forgotten.
Matthew’s frigate came up alongside, and a swarm of men jumped aboard. In an instant, a pitched battle raged across the decks. Catherine ran forward, her blade nothing but a blur, but she was hard-pressed. The sight made his stomach clench. Paul glanced at the Newquay. There was nothing he could do there. No navy ship was closing on it yet, and here he had just him and two men, but he could help Matthew—and Catherine.
He looked down toward the harbour from the relative shelter of the path. A few longboats were still afloat, and at least one was small enough that three men could row it.
Catherine swore viciously as she dragged one of her men from out of the wreckage of the mast. Too late. His head flopped at an odd angle and his eyes stared ahead, unblinking. He wasn’t alone in death.
The Black Cat was already alight under the barrage of the navy, but her captain had managed to block the narrow entrance to the harbour. Only one ship had made it through thus far, but it was rapidly closing.
“Stand to!” Catherine shouted over the roar of her guns as they tried to hole the ship. It was coming in, far too fast. The Wicked Lady was going to be boarded.
Where in hell had they come from? Three days, Paul had said, and yet she’d not had even three hours. He’d lied to her. Like the rest, trying to catch her, stop her from being who she was. Catherine caught sight of the figurehead that loomed toward her. Matthew’s ship. Even worse. She ran to gather her men to repel the boarders, but she knew there wouldn’t be enough. Her ship, her precious Lady, was going to be destroyed at the hands of the navy. Bugger that. Not if she had a say in the matter.
Navy men swarmed aboard, hacking, cutting and bludgeoning as they went. The Wicked Lady was far outnumbered—most of her crew had been ashore when the hilltop crew had signaled, and they’d not had time to get aboard before the cannon had ripped apart half the settlement.
Shot whizzed past her head and embedded itself in the main mast. God damn it, she’d never been boarded before. With her back to the mast, she parried and thrust at the attackers, ever more desperate as their numbers increased. A sword grazed a cut along her ribs, and she gasped in pain. Her men fought back with a fervour that amazed her, their anger and determination against the navy, against those who represented the men who had enslaved or bonded them giving drive to their sword arms. But there were too many, and too many of the bodies of her men slicked the deck with their blood.
She kicked out at the man in front of her, drove her foot into his belly and brought her sword round to slash at him as he bent forward from the blow. A wild, hoarse voice called out. The attackers fell away as the remnants of her crew took a defiant stand and a pitched battle broke out toward the prow. A wide space opened around her, and only one man came forward to fill it: Matthew.
He stared at her as though she were a ghost—and maybe he thought she must be. One of his men came at her from the side, and she knew, even before she made the attempt, that she’d be too slow to deflect the attack.
“Hold!” Matthew shouted, and the man stumbled as he pulled his blow. Matthew took a step forward, a frown twisting his good-natured face. “I know you.”
She said nothing. Poor Matthew had been nothing but an innocent dupe in all this. Why it should matter this time when it hadn’t before, she couldn’t say.
His gaze slid from her face, down and then up to look her in the eye. He seemed incredulous, as though he didn’t believe it. “Cecily?”
She shook her head. “Catherine. There is no Cecily.”
His jaw m
oved as though trying to find words. “What do you mean, there is no Cecily?” he managed finally.
“I was Cecily, or I pretended to be. She was a figment of my imagination.”
Matthew pinched his lips together and shook his head. Then, before she had the chance to do or say any more, his pistol was out and aimed at her. The black pit at the end of the barrel stared her in the eyes, though it shook a little. “You played me for a fool. Paul too. He thought—he thought you were kidnapped. He wanted to rescue you.”
“Yes,” was all she could say. No point in telling Matthew that Paul knew. He may have lied to her, but that would achieve nothing. She’d done enough to him already.
Matthew tightened his finger on the trigger. “And it’s Lady Catherine Harcourt behind all this, behind all the piracy?” He laughed, a breathy sound more shock than mirth, and his lips twisted into a snarl. “Then good riddance, to you and Cecily both. By God, I’ll kill you now and laugh as your blood runs over the deck.”
Catherine looked about her wildly. If she could just duck out of the way…but he was too close. By the time she saw his finger move, she’d be dead. Someone thudded onto the deck behind her as more men clambered aboard her ship. Navy men no doubt, come to break her precious Wicked Lady. They would take her life and the only thing that gave it any meaning.
“Was Paul the traitor?” Matthew asked. “Wagstaff was sure you had someone tipping you off. Was it him? Did you tempt him like you tempted me? Because if so, I’ll see that bastard hang.” His hand was shaking. “Was it you who stuck Jeremiah like a pig and left him to bleed to death in a gutter?”
Catherine couldn’t look him in the eye. Yes, she’d killed her own husband. He’d found out what she was, what she’d been born into, the life she’d reveled in before she’d met him. The life she couldn’t leave behind, even for him. When he’d discovered her secret, he couldn’t accept it. It had broken him. Never entirely stable, finding she wasn’t who or what he had thought and that he wasn’t her first or even second lover, had driven him into a frenzy of jealousy. He’d kept her locked up and taken his rage, his moral disgust and his deep disappointment out on her. “Yes, I killed him. I killed him rather than live locked in a room my whole life, rather than suffer his cold hatred and his hot rage.” She spat on the deck. “I’d do it again.”