Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  “My arm...” he gasped through bloody lips. “Can you save my arm?” The arm hung by a shred of flesh, severed below the elbow.

  “Here, boy,” The doctor lifted Master Boyd, ignoring the boy’s shriek of agony. “Drink this!” Master Boyd sputtered and strangled. The doctor lifted a quick glance and found Bristol. “Hold him up like this,” he commanded.

  Bristol stepped back, her face colorless. “I can’t!” She wrung her hands, and sour bile gushed into her mouth. Black dots speckled her vision.

  “Do it!”

  She sank to her knees in the wet sand and reached shaking hands to prop the boy’s back. Blinking frantically, she tried to clear her eyes.

  “Steady! Hold him steady!” The doctor yanked a heavy knife from his belt.

  Bristol’s violently shaking hands refused to steady, so she pulled the boy against her breast, cradling his thin body in her arms, supporting him. “Help us, God,” she prayed aloud, “help us now.”

  The doctor’s arm lifted and swiftly dropped, slicing through the string of flesh; Master Boyd’s lower arm dropped into the sand. Moving quickly, the doctor’s fingers clamped on the boy’s shoulder and jerked him forward, plunging the red stump into the pot of boiling pitch.

  Master Boyd screamed and screamed, the sound an assault on sane men’s souls. Then his small body fell limp against Bristol’s breast. The doctor lifted his head toward a hoarse voice calling from the bow, and he struggled to stand.

  “Wait!” Bristol pleaded, gasping. “Is he... is he dead?” The boy’s thin, weightless body didn’t move.

  The doctor’s hard eyes flicked over the boy, and he took a long pull from a bottle before answering. “No. He’s fainted.” He nodded toward a bandaged man, and the man scooped Master Boyd up. He headed below decks, the boy dangling from his arms.

  Bristol dropped her head. Her fists clenched into aching white balls. “I... will... not... cry!” She brushed a furious hand over her damp eyes. “I... will... not... cry!” Gradually she conquered the strangling ache in her throat and pushed to her feet, brushing damp sand from her skirt. Looking up, she glimpsed Jane’s shoes protruding from behind the pile of canvas. So many... there were so many.

  Deep shaking anger choked her breath, rising to consume her mind. This needn’t have happened! These people, all of them, could be alive and whole! If... Her glittering green eyes swept the deck, this time with purpose, settling on the rear quarterdeck.

  Lifting her blood-spattered skirts, Bristol darted toward the stern. She took the steps two at a time, bursting onto the deck in panting fury. She halted, her eyes burning into La Crosse.

  “Murderer!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger. “You killed them as surely as if you put a gun to their heads!” She waved toward the littered decks. “You did this! You could have escaped, but you wanted to fight, and now they’re dead! Or maimed!”

  La Crosse’s head snapped up from the chart he examined with two other men.

  “Murderer!” Bristol ran forward and hurled herself on him, mindless in animal fury. Her nails racked his face, digging parallel trails of pink. “You killed Jane and all the rest!” Dry sobs tore her throat.

  La Crosse’s hands caught her wrists and held her fists against his chest. His slate eyes bored into hers, and the lust of battle and blood smoldered in his stare. For an instant their bodies met, and she felt a quick, hard response thrust into her, the touch of his body searing past her ripped gown.

  “Monster!” Bristol screamed, thrashing wildly against him, striking out with fists and feet.

  His hoarse voice lashed the men beside him. “Take this wildcat to my cabin!” he ordered.

  “No!” Bristol screamed. “Never!” She kicked at the grinning men and spun, her hair flying. Lunging for the rail, she tried to escape. “Never, you hear me? Never!”

  The men captured her easily.

  The last thing she saw before they dragged her into the dark passageway was La Crosse. He leaned against the inner rail, watching... and those flaming gray eyes stripped her clothes away and ravished the tender flesh beneath.

  8

  Full darkness descended with the suddenness of night at sea. Deep shadows cast by deck lamps undulated across the torn planking and splintered rigging, illuminating a continuing cleanup operation. All hands labored in the uncertain light, scrubbing decks, restoring items to normal places, cleaning the cannon and locking them into position, assessing damage and beginning minor repairs. Everyone moved with tired steps, but few complained—this too was part of battle; they had been through it all before.

  Captain La Crosse ordered tins of rum for every man and double portions of sea biscuit and salt beef. The men ate and drank and worked and recalled the fight with hard-eyed pleasure. Those unable to participate strained to hear and sorely missed the camaraderie of work and battle tales.

  The man chosen to guard La Crosse’s cabin leaned against the door and cocked an envious ear toward the noise above deck. He flipped his dagger idly, wishing he was topside to hear the stories and work with his hands instead of standing in the silent passageway. He didn’t like guard duty. It was one thing to use his knife against a bastard pirate, another thing entirely to turn that knife into the ribs of a mate.

  Two of the mates already had tested him, creeping down the dim passageway as if drawn to the woman by an invisible rope. No blood had spilled, but it had been a near thing, and the night had just begun. The man sighed and stroked a stubbled chin. No good ever came of having women on board a decent ship.

  His head froze at a whisper of footsteps, and he coiled into a crouch, straightening when he recognized the captain.

  “All quiet?” La Crosse passed beneath a flicker of smoky light, weary shadows beneath his gray eyes.

  “Aye, sir,” the guard answered, standing tall. His hard eyes sharpened with respect and admiration.

  “You’ll be relieved when the watch changes.” La Crosse paused with his hand on the latch. “Have you eaten?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  La Crosse nodded. “And the lady?”

  The guard kept his face carefully impassive. “Her sent the tray back. Her say she not be eating in a devil’s nest.”

  La Crosses smile was tight. “Very well,” he said shortly.

  Inside the cabin, Bristol listened to the murmur of voices beyond the door. During the passing hours, she’d achieved control of the raging emotion that had sent her running onto the quarterdeck. What was done was done. Nothing could undo the damage or return the dead. She thought of her attack on La Crosse with dull helplessness. He wasn’t a murderer, he was a hero. He’d rid the seas of barbarous pirates. But at what cost. At what terrible cost. Could anyone live through the hell on deck and ever again be the person he had been? Bristol couldn’t conceive of it.

  At the sound of the opening door, Bristol’s heart raced and her muscles tensed. Whatever changing emotions she felt toward the battle did not alter her own position. She vividly recalled the lust glowing in La Crosse’s eyes. That question could not be resolved by a few hours of rational thought.

  But she was ready for him. No one had appeared to light the lamps, but a silvery moon shining in the bank of windows had provided ample light for a search. She’d found what she wanted, and Bristol waited tensely before the windows, both hands curled tightly around the hilt of a cutlass.

  From the moment the men pushed her into La Crosse’s cabin, she’d known what to expect. And she’d listened to the scuffles outside the cabin door, knowing without question what they signified. Every man on board the Challenger would ravish her in an instant, fired by blood and victory. Even the Challenger’s captain. Bristol’s fingers gripped the sword hilt painfully, and she stared toward the door.

  La Crosse paused just inside the cabin, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  “Don’t come near me!” Bristol hissed. She lifted the sword, tilting the blade to catch the moonlight. She wanted him to see that she’d kill before su
bmitting to his rape. She prayed the killing was over, that the elapsed time had deadened his lust. But she would run him through if he forced her.

  La Crosse blinked, then laughed.

  Nervously Bristol shifted. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but definitely not amusement. Angry and uncertain, she frowned toward the rich roll of laughter.

  When he could speak, La Crosse shook his dark head, holding the wound on his chest. “Ah, little girl... you play the fool once more. Jeune fille! Mon Dieu!” Ignoring Bristol’s glare, he lit the wall lamp. In total unconcern he moved to the lamp at the desk.

  Quickly Bristol stepped back, jerking up the tip of the sword, her heart thudding against her ribs. But La Crosse didn’t glance at her. He lit the desk lamp and walked to the door, ordering the guard to send for a meal.

  “I’ll not eat in this room,” Bristol spit.

  La Crosse’s dark eyebrow rose. “Did I say the meal was for you? Even devils must eat. The food is mine.” Impatience tightened his deep voice. Wearily he sank to the edge of the bed. Bristol’s wary stare did not leave his face. He rolled his head on his shoulders, stretching with slow tired movements. Lifting a foot to his knee, La Crosse struggled to pull off his boots. He glanced up with a slow grin. “I don’t suppose you might offer assistance?”

  Bristol’s knuckles whitened on the sword hilt. He was beyond rational comprehension—like a chameleon, changing from one mood to another, and each more offensive than the last. She struggled to reconcile the man of the flashing sword and lustful eye with the tired man wrestling his boots. “Never!” she shouted.

  His grin widened. “I rather thought not.” The boot slid off, and he tossed it to the planks, reaching for his other foot. When both boots lay on the planking, La Crosse sighed. “So. You still see me as a murderer.” Extending his feet, he wiggled his toes luxuriously.

  Bristol bit her lip. These normal homey actions confused her weary mind. Would a man contemplating rape wiggle his toes? Thoroughly bewildered, she swung suspicious eyes to stare at La Crosse. He didn’t seem to expect a comment, and she offered none.

  When he stood, she lifted the sword, and her eyes flashed. But La Crosse paid no attention. Instead, he stripped off his shirt, peeling it carefully from his wound, and threw the torn bloodied shirt toward a wooden chest. He walked to a basin of water near the bed.

  Bristol chewed her raw lip, the sword heavy in her moist palms. Protesting nerves quivered on edge. Why didn’t he get this confrontation behind them? She could not tolerate the waiting. She’d seen the look in his smoky eyes, she’d felt the hard urgency between his legs. That he would come for her, she didn’t doubt. The question was when.

  Vigilant, her muscles tensed and ready, Bristol watched him through a narrowed sweep of lash. Strong sinews rippled along his back as he leaned over the basin, wringing a cloth in the water.

  She shifted uneasily. Despite her fear and loathing, a glimmer of fascination sparked her green eyes. She cleared her throat. La Crosse was the first man she’d observed at close range who was not wearing a shirt, and the sight of his naked skin pulled her eyes like a magnet. She stared at broad, well-developed shoulders and an upper body that tapered to a lean waist. Angry with herself, revolted at her thoughts, Bristol wrenched her eyes away.

  Then back. La Crosse winced and uttered a soft sound as the cloth moved over his chest. Silently Bristol watched as he cleaned the wound, unreasonably feeling a twinge of guilt. That is ridiculous, Bristol thought wildly, not understanding her own confusion of emotion. If he needed assistance, wouldn’t he call to the guard? Aye, of course he would. Still, she wished he’d turn so she could see for herself how bad the wound was. Not that Bristol cared, she assured herself hastily, but... but what would happen to the crippled ship if La Crosse were severely injured? More important, what would happen to her? Would the men respect her safety? No.

  She wiped damp palms on her skirt. Her nerves grew more ragged by the minute. Swallowing, Bristol made a noise in her throat. It galled her to satisfy her curiosity, but she had to know. “How... how badly are you hurt?” Her voice emerged weak and petulant. Annoyed at her tone, she felt a spot of color appear on her pale cheeks.

  La Crosse turned then and smiled, his eyebrow arching in amusement. “So, you can still talk. Your concern is touching, Mistress Adams.” Bristol ground her teeth and dropped her eyes to the slash of red cutting through a thicket of dark hair. “I think you’ll be disappointed to learn that I will definitely survive. The wound is troublesome but not serious.”

  Despite herself, Bristol felt a weak tide of relief. She pulled her eyes from his muscled chest and up to the strong face, noting with satisfaction the faint marks of her nails along his cheek. Her gaze lingered on the scar tracking his jaw. He wouldn’t have sounded this casual following that wounding.

  “Did Sanchez give you the throat wound as well?” she asked abruptly.

  La Crosse’s smile vanished. His brows met. “Aye,” he answered sharply. “Long ago. Hardly a man in these waters hasn’t felt the bite of those cutthroats.” His voice hardened to grim pleasure. “But never again.” He tossed the pink cloth into the basin and touched his chest gingerly.

  “But at what cost!” Bristol said bitterly, not looking at the crisp hair curling on his body. “So many men... and Jane Able.” She shivered, thinking of Jane’s torn throat.

  La Crosse’s smoky eyes darkened. “Goodwife Able’s death is to be regretted.” He shrugged gracefully. “For the men... they understand the risks when they sign on. A certain amount of loss is to be expected. It was far less than it might have been. The men fought bravely and well.”

  “But it was so unnecessary!” Bristol fought tears of despair pricking her lids. Her fingers tightened on the sword hilt. Glancing down, she suddenly felt vaguely ridiculous. She threatened an imaginary enemy. Here they stood, conversing like normal people. La Crosse hadn’t shown the slightest inclination toward raping her, either by word or glance. Still, pride wouldn’t let her back down, and a sense of security existed so long as the hard metal lay in her grasp.

  Her head jerked as La Crosse called, “Enter.”

  Mr. Aykroyd carried a tray inside the cabin and set it on the desk. A spotted bandage circled one arm; an earlobe was missing. Bristol offered him a wobbly smile of sympathy, refusing to think about the young boy who normally served the captain’s tray.

  “Thank you, Mr. Aykroyd.” La Crosse summoned a tired smile. “Is it still too early for a complete report?”

  “We be knowing more by daylight, sir. I dispatched most of the men to their hammocks, and we be keeping a short watch.” Mr. Aykroyd slid a concerned glance toward Bristol, visibly relaxing when he saw she was unhurt. “The Challenger be limping, sir, but she don’t look to set anchor for repair.” His eyes returned to Bristol’s tight-lipped glare, then dropped to the cutlass she gripped. Making no comment, he turned an expressionless face back to the captain.

  La Crosse had moved and taken his seat at the desk before Bristol realized what he intended. Angrily she stepped against the windows and stared at his naked back. Calmly La Crosse lifted a fork from the tray. “Thank you, Mr. Aykroyd, that will be all.”

  “Aye, sir.” Mr. Aykroyd’s blue eyes looked behind the captain at Bristol’s stormy expression; his eyes lingered on the cutlass, then he smiled and stepped through the cabin door.

  Seething, Bristol felt a resurgence of hot anger. Mr. Aykroyd’s smile dismissed her like an impotent child. He wasn’t the least concerned that his precious captain might be in danger. And La Crosse! She glared at the flow of muscle along the ridges of his back as he bent to his food. He, too, didn’t seem troubled by having a sword pointing at his neck.

  She stared at his shining dark curls. She could swing the sword and lop off his head. And he would be as dead as Jane Able... as Master Boyd’s arm... as many of the men from his own ship.

  Bristol stared at his neck until her eyes ached. And all the while, La Crosse behaved as i
f he were alone in the room. He ate with relish, consuming every bite of the steaming mutton and pearly mounds of rice. Wishing she could neither see nor smell the food, Bristol yearned toward a small dish of orange sections that emitted a tangy scent so tantalizing she felt faint. Her stomach growled, and abruptly she recalled she hadn’t eaten since last night.

  Sighing, Bristol quietly lowered the sword point. Aye, she loathed him; she hated him. But this man had saved her from the pirate. This man’s skill had won the battle. And Bristol Adams was not a killer. Not unless he threatened her, attempted to take her against her will. Green eyes lingered on the dish of oranges. If La Crosse made a single motion toward her, just one, she’d run him through in an instant. The oranges smelled of a spicy heaven. And she’d kill him without a pang of remorse. None.

  La Crosse swallowed his wine and bit into an orange slice, the delicious aroma drifting back to tickle Bristol’s nose. She choked on a burst of moisture watering her mouth.

  “Please!” Her voice was too loud. “Give me a slice of that orange!” Her mouth watered unbearably, and her stomach growled so loudly she knew he must hear. How could she have refused the earlier tray with such lofty disdain?

  “No,” La Crosse answered calmly. Deliberately he finished the remaining orange wedges.

  Bristol blinked at the rough cord tying his dark curls. She stared at the empty dish and fought to control a biting disappointment. Frustrated and hungry, she shifted the cutlass between her palms. “Why not?” she blurted in a small voice, sounding foolish even to herself. The oranges were gone; he truly had eaten them all.

  La Crosse swiveled in his chair, examining her with steady gray eyes. “Mistress Adams. I grow weary of your childish demands.” He studied her, the eyes hardening. “Little girl, it is time you grew up.” Blotting his lips with a square of linen, he rose from the chair to tower over Bristol. A hard center leaped in the smoke-colored eyes. He extended a hand. “Give me the sword,” La Crosse commanded softly, but there was nothing soft in his face.