by Kim Bowman
Percy didn’t flinch. Thanks to training he’d received within Nelson’s Tea, his reflexes were on continuous alert. He knew the minute Constance began to regain consciousness. His body was tuned to hers in ways he couldn’t define. He reasoned loyalty to Simon played a part. When she stirred, he sheltered her face in the crook of his arm so she wouldn’t be exposed to Collins’ humiliating treatment.
“Be still,” he whispered, “if you want to live.”
Catching the movement like a man with eyes in the back of his head, Frink shouted. “Bring the girl!”
Percy took a hesitant step forward. Every second Constance came to being fully awake increased her odds of getting killed.
“Set her down. If she wakes up, I want her to see what happens to those who oppose me.”
Percy laid Constance on the ground. “Do not move,” he warned her.
Her eyes flickered open. Those startling green eyes locked with his. Smoke blanketed their feet from the residue of battle. Dangerous minutes ticked by, until Collins squirmed, drawing the captain’s attention. Captain Collins’ eyes narrowed at Frink and then slowly shifted to Percy. It was obvious the man was in immeasurable pain. His fixed stare willed Percy not to break Nelson’s code, though Percy had already scanned the crowd, looking for ways to save the merchantman’s life.
“When my time comes, make sure I go out like a man.” He could never forget Collins’ last request, even if he tried.
Collins’ face contorted. “Kill me and be done with it!” Frink couldn’t know Collins was directing this last request to Percy.
“You’ll make a pretty death of it yet, Collins!” Frink exclaimed, grabbing Constance by the arm.
Now wide awake, Constance squealed and shrank away.
“You see,” Frink said, reaching down to pull her to her feet. “We make hell worth living.” He gave Constance a rough shake. “And if this be hell, I want to enjoy every last minute of it.” He jerked her forward and planted a forceful kiss on her lips.
Constance squirmed then gagged. When he released her, she pummeled him with her fists.
“You bitch!” The captain slapped her face and twitched his nose in a telling gesture that meant he was just getting started. He bowed mockingly then twisted Constance cruelly aside with one arm and offered his men a salute with the other.
“The lady and I bid you adieu. Perhaps my crew can be persuaded to put you out of your misery, Collins.”
Percy clenched his fists. His worst fears confirmed, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Frink dragged Constance over to the hatch of the cargo hold. There, the wretch tore open her linen wrapper, fought against her struggling, thrashing limbs and fumbled with the opening of his breeches. The crowd erupted into cheers. Guffald, a member of Nelson’s Tea, lay unconscious a short distance away. If Percy hadn’t been hard-pressed to check out the bowels of the Octavia and hadn’t been detained by saving Danbury’s niece, he might have been able to help the man. Two pirates poured oil over Guffald, preparing to set him aflame. Not another moment could go to waste. His gaze flicked over his crew. The signal. All he had to do was give it.
Celeste’s silhouette flashed before him, but her image was dissected by Constance’s terrified scream. The time had come. Percy pulled out his blunderbuss and aimed the pistol at Guffald’s would-be assassin. He pulled the trigger. Smoke filled the air as the powerful slug hit the man and sent him reeling backward. The torch disappeared when the tar vanished over the Octavia’s railing.
“Make ready!” Percy yelled to his men.
One of Frink’s men attacked Percy from behind. He jabbed the man in the ribs, side-stepped a flash of silver, turned, and bashed him over the head with the butt of his pistol. Percy then tossed the gun and bent to retrieve a sword sticking out of a bloodied corpse.
“Ollie, take care of Guffald,” he said wiping the bloody blade on his breeches. “Nelson will want him alive.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Jacko,” he said, “give the signal.”
Jacko’s shrill whistle galvanized the men. One by one, they raced into action; drawing dirks, cutlasses, marlinspikes, and axes against Frink’s crew. Mutiny swept man to man. What was left of Collins’ crew jumped into the fray.
Percy rushed up to Collins.
“Save her,” Collins panted. “Don’t let any harm come to Lady Constance!”
Percy nodded. He grabbed Jacko’s arm. “Take care of him.” Jacko laid his hand on Collins’ shoulder, as Percy hastened toward the cargo hatch. A loud crack splintered the air. Dodging debris and the carnage, he stepped out of the way just in time to avoid a collapsing mast. Up ahead, Frink loitered just beyond his reach.
“Hold,” Percy shouted, stepping in to confront his nemesis.
Frink’s head snapped up. His sudden mistake cost him as Constance took advantage of the moment and shoved her knee into Frink’s half-exposed crotch. Bowing with pain, the captain cursed. Constance scrambled to get away. Percy rushed forward to grab Constance’s arm and pull her to his side, but Frink miraculously regained his balance and grabbed Constance’s foot to drag her back.
“Not so fast,” he bellowed. Squaring his eyes at Percy, he spat, “I’ll be blown, you turncoat! I should’ve known you’d turn your back on me!”
“Hand over the girl!”
Percy held his cutlass high, aiming the broad tip at Frink’s heart, allowing his gaze but a second or two to linger on Constance to ensure that she was unharmed. Shaken but uninjured, she appeared to be going into shock. He watched in horror as she stumbled closer to the edge of the hatch to escape the silver blade upheld in Frink’s fist.
“Take her from me, if you can,” Frink challenged.
Constance whimpered. Left with no other choice, Percy was going to have to go through Frink to reach her. With fencing prowess unmatched, he had no doubt as to his odds. But a cutlass was a hacking blade. Should he wield the final blow, all connection to Frink and his benefactor would be destroyed, ending his quest to bring Celeste’s killer to justice.
Rumbling as if Poseidon tore at the Octavia’s hull, the merchantman’s wooden shell began to crack. Glass shattered. The deck heaved. Time was running out.
Bloody hell. “Look out!” Percy cried as the deck collapsed, plunging Constance through the hatch.
Frink’s eyes took on demonic light and he grinned wickedly. “Looks like you’re too late to save the wench. But if you dare to try, you’ll have to go through me first.”
With vicious tenacity, the captain engaged Percy in a duel of clashing steel. Their two blades arched, swooped down, jabbed and parried as they pirouetted, lunged, and retreated.
Percy’s blade sparked as it sliced Frink’s. “You’ve preyed upon the innocent for the last time.”
“Give it your best, boy!”
Percy sidestepped Frink’s lunging thrusts, challenging him jab for jab. Step by step, their sword play sapped his strength as they parried closer to the hatch and the collapsing deck along the bow. Eight long months of anger and humiliation fueled the duel. As the combat continued — lunge, parry, lunge — the ship, gutted for everything it was worth, listed. The Octavia had little time left before it slipped beneath the surface. For Constance’s sake, Percy needed to end this quickly, so he could give her what he’d never been able to give his own sister. Freedom.
Debris cascaded down on them, hampering the fight. Frink baited him with riotous vigor, the strains of his insanity tightening Percy’s corded nerves. An explosion below rocked their feet, sending them reeling sideways. Percy moved in for the kill as the Octavia dipped, growing miserably defiant.
“She’s goin’ down, Sexton!”
Frink propelled his blade forward, nearly burying it in Percy’s side. Warmth seeped down Percy’s hip. Ocean spray moistened his face. He couldn’t back down. He had to put an end to Frink’s tyranny even if it cost him his last breath.
The ship rolled backward, pitching them both forward. Unable to catch his footing, Fr
ink stumbled headfirst into the hold. Percy ran toward the hatch and peered into the darkness, searching for any sign of Constance. Groaning in agony, the Octavia measured her fate by inches. If he was going to get Constance off the ship alive, Percy knew he was going to have to jump in after her.
Without another thought, he leapt into the hold. Landing unsteadily on his feet, he took a moment to get his bearings, but was immediately pummeled from behind. Scrambling to protect himself, he sighted Frink out of the corner of his eye as the man attempted to slam another piece of wood onto his back. The blow struck him across the shoulder. Percy caught the wooden beam jerked it out of Frink’s hands and then slammed the jagged wood into the captain’s side. Frink fell to the bottom of the hull, cursed, and rolled to his feet, producing a knife. Dodging a few well-placed thrusts that caught him along the sleeve, Percy pivoted, jerked the knife free, and locked the captain in a choke-hold.
Fury unlike any he’d ever known seethed within him, and a satisfied smile curved the corners of his mouth as he strangled Frink unconscious. If he couldn’t find the benefactor who’d financed Frink’s endeavors, at least he could gain satisfaction from killing Frink, the pirate captain responsible for the demise of innocents.
Light flickered above, illuminating wreckage floating about his feet. Water frothed about his legs as he searched hull to hull for any signs of Constance Danbury.
“Constance!” he yelled.
His ears alerted to every sound, he let Frink go and watched the man slip underwater. The burden of an empty future was a weightless concern compared to the life of the woman he had yet to find. He called her name again. Not long after, he heard a groaning plea rise above shifting timber, swelling water, and the bedlam above.
“Constance?”
“Help!”
He heard the faint request and sped into action.
Searching the darkness, he spied fabric floating atop the foamy surface. A hand clawed the air. A golden head rose out of the freezing wash. Water cascaded in rivulets from beams threatening to burst at the seams. Shouts to abandon ship rang out above deck as the ship reeled at an awkward angle. The vessel moaned like thousands of murdered souls pleading release.
Percy waded through the quickening wash and lifted Constance into his arms. Her shift clung to her body like a second skin as her head sagged against him. Pale, unresponsive, he slapped her cheek to rouse her. Nothing. Was he too late? Still no response. He grabbed her chin with his broad hand and pulled her mouth toward his, breathing life into her. One puff. Two. Three. She coughed, spitting water out of her mouth, then sucked in life-giving air.
“G-Get away f-from me.”
The ship pitched again, moaning, making him feel like he was trapped in the belly of a whale. Time was running out.
Percy gave her a rough shake. “Do you know how to swim, woman?”
Chapter Three
“Swim?” Good heavens! She couldn’t swim.
“If you don’t, we’re as good as dead.” The blackguard reached for her arm.
She contemplated taking the proffered hand, knowing she had no alternative, fearing what would happen if she didn’t have enough courage to do so.
“Take my hand. We’ve got to reach the top of the hold, or we’ll go under with the ship.”
“I’ll never make it!”
“Trust me.”
Constance sobbed. “I can’t.” This time, she wasn’t talking about trust. Paralyzed with fear, she stared longingly at his broad, capable hand.
Water swirled about her waist, higher and higher, the icy lather inching up to her breasts, churning around her. He couldn’t know the demons he asked her to face, the terror rushing through her veins, the tightness in her chest.
“You must.”
“I can’t!” she exclaimed, her body and mind shutting down. What was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she take his hand? Was it the frigid water temperature or fear muddling her thoughts?
“You can and you will.”
He spoke as though surviving shipwrecks had been a daily affair. His icy stare commanded her obedience. Every ounce of her being wanted to comply, to believe this devil meant to help her, but horrors of the past, pirates, her mother descending beneath the foamy spray took an unrelenting hold upon her mind.
Undeterred, he reached out and grabbed her waist. She yelped.
“Do you want my death on your conscience?”
“Nothing would please me more!” She lied. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want her death on his conscience, if he had one. Her frantic gaze searched the dwindling space in the hold, her mind doubting getting off the Octavia was even possible.
“Do you want to live?”
“Y-yes…” she finally stammered. Good God! Yes!
He pulled her toward the hatch opening and then released her momentarily to get a grip on the ledge. Almost immediately, a blunt object scraped her leg, knocking her out of his reach. She cried out and snatched for his hand. He grasped her hair, yanking her back toward him as the sea roiled like a living being beneath them.
“Leave me.” She gulped a mouthful of water and gasped. “I’ll only get you killed!”
“Grab hold of my neck and don’t let go. We’ll climb up to the hatch and make for the Striker.”
“I’m… a-afraid,” she cried, finally getting a foothold, teeth chattering.
“Concentrate. I’ll get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do. I swear it upon my sister’s grave. Trust me,” he implored. His entreaty robbed her of all thought. She nodded, desperate to cling onto a smidgeon of hope that she could survive — again. “That’s it. Hang on! Let me do the work.”
He swam with her to a beam in the hull, dodging wood fragments flooding past. With the strength of what seemed like ten men, he reached up for the edge of the hatch, pulled himself up, and then dangled his body above her with the agility of a man used to averting disaster.
“Keep a firm grip on the rail,” he shouted.
Stars sparkled above as he deftly swung himself up and out of the hold. For a moment, the outline of his body was blocked from sight. The ship groaned. Water swirled like a whirlpool about her. The momentary joy she felt upon seeing him free of the chaos beneath them, knowing he’d promised to save her, fled as a wave crashed over the hatch dousing him with a terrifying sea wash.
Water flooded over her head, the weight of it temporarily submerging her. Constance struggled to keep her grip, but no matter how she tried to hang on, her hands slipped. She sank, swallowing her fill of seawater, and tried unsuccessfully to claw her way back up to life-giving air.
The willowy form of a woman appeared. Take hold of my hand, Constance. Don’t give up. Grab my hand!
Constance kicked her feet and stretched out her hand eagerly. The hand she grabbed didn’t belong to her mother, however, but a devil with a worrisome snarl. The brute yanked her up and onto the Octavia’s sloping, fiery deck.
“You’re a lot of trouble.”
“M-Mrs. M-Mortimer,” she said, choking out the seawater she’d swallowed.
He slapped her on the back. “Your maid is already aboard the Striker, along with Guffald and Captain Collins.”
“Make way for the captain!” an order sounded in the semi-darkness.
The ruffian lifted her and carried her to the edge of the Octavia’s deck. “No! Y-You can’t mean to—”
“I do.”
She put her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. As a testament to his brawny strength, he pulled her arms from around his neck and ordered, “Grab the girl, Jacko,” and threw her overboard.
Jacko ordered, “Clear the ship!
Icy seawater splashed over her as she landed with a big splash and clawed mindlessly toward the glowing surface until she was quickly fished out of the sea by two sneering crewmen who lifted her as if she weighed not an ounce. Once inside the boat, she glanced furiously over her shoulder toward the Octavia and the damned pirate who’d thrown her in the Celtic Se
a knowing full well she was afraid of drowning. But her anger dissolved in an instant, and she held her breath as the blackguard stood on the blazing deck like a mythical god. An extraordinary, lithe spectacle, he dove into the sea, arching high to plunge beneath the frothy surface and effortlessly swim to the side of the gig, where he grabbed hold of a proffered arm and swung himself deftly aboard. He shook water from his hair and took a knee.
“She’s goin’ down by the head, Captain.”
“Aye,” he said, his voice absolutely emotionless. “Get us clear, Jacko, before she takes us under.”
“Row, men! Steer us free!” Jacko bellowed.
As the distance grew between the cutter and the sinking ship, Constance shivered and that caused her to wonder if drowning wouldn’t have been the better choice. What would her future hold now?
~~~~
Jacko’s bark stung the night air almost as much as salt in his bad eye.
Percy’s men heaved forward and back to spin the oars, muscles straining against the currents. He sat at the head of the gig and watched the ill-fated Octavia tip bow to stern, half anticipation, half dread. The sea devoured her whole, taking Frink and all connection to Celeste’s killer down to the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker.
Irritated that he’d come so close to learning the identity of Frink’s benefactor only to lose all he’d worked so hard for in the time it took to sink a ship, his irritated gaze settled on the bedraggled Lady Constance. A war of emotions raged within him. He wanted to strike out at her for coming between him and what he wanted most in the world. But as Her Ladyship tried desperately to maintain her modesty, he saw the purity he’d long ago vowed to protect. Celeste, his innocent sister, in need of his help, her limp body ravaged by disease after being sacrificed to the highest bidder and left on the altar of pestilence. The guilt bit as fiercely as the frigid wind cut into his wet clothes. He turned away and cast his gaze out to sea, content remnants of the man he used to be still resided, however hidden, within him.