“No,” I said, though I don’t know where the word came from. “Luck is a fickle mistress. Some have it good, some have it bad. Nothing personal.” Again, my voice, but the words were from somewhere else.
The man beneath me fell into water where the bed was. Disappearing through dark blue ripples, his face was frozen in shock. In moments he was gone, as if he’d never existed.
“Nothing personal.”
My eyes flew open, bright blazing sunlight slamming into them like a canon. The sound of lapping waves was joined by the sensation of water gently running over my feet. A light breeze carried salty spray onto my face. Where was I?
My whole body ached. The parts I could feel anyway. Gritty sand and salt were everywhere, in every opening. I tried to sit up, but I had no strength to. My whole body protested at the thought.
I looked down and saw a piece of my ship laying on my chest, a wooden cask with rope binding it to myself. Now I remembered. I remembered every damned thing!
The merchant ship we’d plundered, and the marine skiff that ran up on us unawares. The battle had been a horrible, bloody affair. Canon answered canon, their solid shells piercing our hull. Our chainshot had scored a direct hit on their main mast, toppling it into the sea.
Crew of both ships collided into each other in the mayhem of hand to hand combat as the sun set on the horizon. Flintlock pistols licked fire, spraying men with hot peppershot. Men stabbed with daggers, swung long clubs at heads. My first mate, Callus Chris, buried a hatchet in the head of the marine captain. All his fancy buttons and medals didn’t mean spit in the end.
I flexed my hands and feet, letting the feeling come back to them. Painful pins shot through my body, making me cry in agony.
Things looked doomed when a fire started on the marine ship. The Salty Shake had taken too many shells to the hull, and it reared up on one end, capsizing. I watched members of my crew get crushed by falling timbers. I watched one man get tangled in a line and pulled overboard. Like bait being taken by a shark.
The sailor code says the captain goes down with the ship. Shit on the sailor code. The pirate code says you do whatever it takes to live another day, because we’re all surely going to burn in Hades. Best to put that off as long as possible.
I laughed, my bottom lip splitting and blood pouring into my mouth. So this is the end of the terrible Lady Brass. Shipwrecked on a desert island. Would I die here on this beach? It would only take the tide coming in, maybe a foot of water at most.
Or maybe I was already dead. The thought stopped my laughter in my throat. Could this be Hell? It felt like hell, that’s for sure. But where was Ole Pokey Jack? No, I was still among the living. For now.
I gave another effort to sit up, and my body lifted off the sand. My head swung upwards, my vision going blurry. I breathed deeply, slowly. My gaze went out over the water. Peaceful, lazy waves, like sapphires snoring in their sleep.
I turned my neck, gritting my teeth through the pain. Up the beach to my left, I could see debris on the beach, possibly more wreckage. To my right the beach curved back around, disappearing behind a copse of trees. Behind me the beach went up about a hundred feet, then the island became thickly wooded.
I had no idea where this island could be. There were no islands near the merchant vessel when we plundered her. I didn’t know if I’d been adrift for hours or days, or in which direction the sea carried me. Right and proper buggered.
I untied the cask around my chest, letting it fall to the side. I unplugged the cork stopper on the top, praying it had held tight in the waves. I poured some of the water into my hand. It smelled clean. I dipped my tongue into it, not tasting any salt. I upended the cask, letting the hot water wash down my parched throat.
I put the cask down, re-sealing it. I wanted to drink more. I needed to drink more. But I didn’t know if there was fresh water on this island. You had to be realistic about these things.
I stood up slowly, walking down the beach towards the rest of the wreckage on the beach. There was rope, broken planks of wood and torn pieces of sail. I kicked it around, hoping to uncover a box of biscuits or some fruit. But there was only trash.
Sighing, I walked back to where my water cask was. Twenty feet away I froze. I’d been walking back next to my tracks. Near where I lay, I now saw another set of tracks. Someone had stood over me while I slept.
My hand went to my belt and closed around the reassuring iron of my flintlock pistol. Soaked through with water, the cartridge was probably useless. But no one else needed to know that. My dagger was still in it’s sheath on the other side of my hip. I didn’t like them, because to use them you had to be close enough for the other bastard to use his on you. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“You can either wait for trouble to find you, or you go out and get the drop on trouble,” Captain DeTouign had told me once. I’d learned so much from him, up until the British Royal Navy hung him in London Square. Retired by the rope, as we say.
I began to follow the stranger’s tracks down the beach. I had to find whomever else was on this island. Maybe it was a member of my crew. Maybe it was one of the British sailors. It could even be an island native. Any of them would have cause to slit my throat.
So why was I still alive? The question nagged at me, like a fish on a hook that wouldn’t let go. I just hope I lived long enough to figure out this riddle.
The tracks had a long stride, so I knew this person was tall. It was also a large foot, so I was dealing with a man. Not really a surprise, but even knowing that was empowering. Little by little I’d tear down this mystery.
Then the tracks stopped. Or, rather, they changed. One footprint was a man’s, then a stride away was something else. A paw print. What an odd thing. Was my mind soft, like a sodden sponge? I closed my eyes and shook my head. Opening them again, I looked down.
Still a paw print. They went further down the beach, around the bend. No point in chasing a dog down the beach. British ships sometimes kept them on board to catch rats. Little bastard had a better shot here than I did.
The sun overhead was a constant blaze, crisping my already burnt skin. I had to get shelter, and that meant heading into the interior. Even some palm fronds tied together would give me sanctuary from the devilish sun.
After scrabbling through the brush for what seemed like an hour, I heard water splashing, but not from the sea. Trees were thick in every direction, so this must mean a spring or natural well. I prayed to the gods above and below that it was fresh water. I ran towards the splashing, barging through a thick row of bushes.
A large pond extended out in front of me, perhaps fifty feet to the other edge. The water was crystal clear, and was cascading down a rocky hill that ran upwards out of sight.
And swimming around in the clear water was a naked man. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I ducked behind a tree so I could get a good look at him. Then I would know my next move.
He had long blonde hair and broad shoulders. Arms that were thick and muscled, like a good piece of meat from a butcher. As he dove down into the water I saw his firm rump, perfect for biting under other circumstances. He had a small belly, but not enough to betray an indulgence in drink.
In other words, not a pirate. Not one of my crew. A British sailor then. Not much to be done for it. I’d have to kill him, but I’d have to do it away from the pond. Blood turns water foul faster than anything else.
“Are you going to hide behind that tree all day?” he said.
I cursed myself silently. I’d lost my element of surprise, and for no gain. Stupid milk coddle idiot!
“We’ve got you in our sights. Move and we fill ye full o’ lead!” I said, trying to sound imposing.
I heard a chuckle from the pond and a splash as he dove under the water. He re-emerged closer, coming up on my side of the pond. Better than him going back for a weapon.
“I said don’t move! Do you know who I am?” I shouted.
“Aye, you’re the Dread Lady Brass. Scourge of
Her Majesty’s seas. You’ve plundered ten ships, sent over two hundred good men and women to Davy Jones’ Locker,” he said. But he kept getting closer.
I had my flintlock in one hand, my dagger in the other. I stepped out from behind the tree. “That’s far enough, minnow.” I leveled the pistol at his chest.
He had a hard face, the kind that had been in more than a few bar brawls. His nose had been broken at least once. A thin scar ran down one cheek, But it was a strong face as well. Proud cheekbones and a chin like a rocky outcropping.
“Minnow?” he said, his lips turning up in a grin. His eyes glanced downward, and mine followed. He was hung, hung like a bull moose.
“Well, some minnows are bigger than others,” I said, “But yer minnows all the same. Name and rank.”
“Corpsman Fentin Potswain, ma’am! Proud to sail in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy!” he said, snapping to a sharp salute.
“You seem upbeat for a dead man,” I said.
“Dead, am I? Then I do say my last day alive was wonderful,” he said, slowly walking closer. The water dripped from his hot body.
“Wonderful? What was so wonderful about today?” I said, my pistol hand getting heavy. I wasn’t used to parley: normally I would’ve let the flintlock do the talking. Any followup conversation would be done with cutlass and hatchet.
“I woke up, alive, on a tropical island. The sun shone down on me, the waves lapped lazily at the shore. And I found a sleeping beauty, a lass trapped by a curse. A lass in need of a kiss,” he said, now a step away.
Those eyes…blue like the Adriatic Sea. He stepped closer, his body pushing the barrel of my pistol away. The stubble on his cheeks was a rainbow of colors: black, brown, blonde, and even some coppery-red.
“Watching me, were you?” I said, dropping my blade to lay against his manhood.
He inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide in shock.
“Did ye tug your root while ye stood over me? Like a boy at a peephole?” I said, enjoying this. I rarely played with my prey.
“Watch it, lass. You play with fire,” he said, his voice lower, like rumbling thunder.
“For some girls, fire is the only thing worth playing with anymore,” I said, but I ran the dagger up from his prick. It scratched a thin white line up his belly, his chest, up to his neck where I pressed the blade. “This better?”
“Aye, tis better,” he said, his cock stirring to life. “Fire is dangerous. Hot, unforgiving, and a little taste of it can destroy everything,” he said. His hand came up, slowly, to stroke my face. “But fire is also beautiful. Enchanting. Mysterious,” he said, softly brushing some hair aside.
My body responded to this simple touch. My breasts were trapped in my leather jerkin, my peaked nipples painfully brushing against the damp calfskin. My trousers were tight. Too tight against my throbbing sex.
I tilted my face up to his, offering him my pursed lips.
He cocked his head sideways. “Do you hear that?”
“Aye, tis the passion you’ve ignited in-hey!” I said as he grabbed my arm and pulled me through the brush. His other hand scooped down to grab a satchel he left behind a tree.
I hadn’t heard anything. Maybe he’d taken a blow to the skull in the melee. I’d known a man who could name every star in the sky. He knew every constellation, even those in the Indian Ocean. One day we were stopped in port and a mule kicked him in the head. Wasn’t good for much besides drooling after that.
Fentin kept up a brisk pace, with no concern for his wedding tackle swinging as we leapt over driftwood and burst through underbrush. He was tough. I liked that.
“Where are we-“ I said, stumbling as my foot caught a root. I almost collided with a palm tree, but Fentin grabbed me just in time. I looked up.
We were at the edge of the thick edge of trees that dominated the interior of the island. We looked out over the beach and into the sea. Ten leagues out, a three-masted ship was putting down anchor. I could barely see tiny crew hauling rope and climbing rigging.
The wind changed direction and flattened the flag out, making it easier for me to see. My breath froze in my chest. Red background, black coffin. “That’s The Tyrant’s ship!” I sputtered, leaning against the tree with all my weight.
“Friend of yours?” Fentin said, his eyes scanning over the ship.
“Friend of no one. The Tyrant is known far and wide. Mean bastard. They say his father was a rifle, his mother a goat,” I said. “What he be doin’ here?”
“Might have something to do with this,” Fentin said, passing me a bottle.
I took the bottle. Inside was a curl of white paper. I unplugged the bottle and pulled the slip of paper out. I unfurled it:
Tyranis,
We are intercepted. Trish is on Isla de Inconsequencia. Behind the waterfall lies a cave. She’ll be waiting in there. Marines are boarding now. See ye in hell.
-Breaker Bart
“Breaker Bart was a captain under Tyrant. I knew him to be a heartless bastard, fond of breaking men with clubs before tossing them overboard,” I said. Trish was thieve’s tongue for treasure: it was always a woman’s name. But I didn’t need to tell Fentin that.
“Can’t speak to how heartless he was. He bled like any other when a rifle puts a hole in him. He was about to throw this bottle overboard, but we obtained it,” Fentin said, regarding the paper in my hand. “So what was so important about this Trish person that he gave his life trying to tell Tyrant about her?” His eyes glanced up to mine and locked on.
“You know what they say about sailors. Sometimes they spend so long at sea, even a whiff of pussy makes them crazy. I guess he be sentimental for this Trish gal,” I said, holding his eyes as best I could.
“I see,” he said, looking away. “He also released a crow before dying. I suspect that message reached Tyrant. And now,” he said, pointing out at the ship, “we have guests.”
I could see a small rowboat casting off from the larger vessel. I knew those boats to hold a dozen men. Tyrant would not be keen on either a Marine nor another pirate, especially on the island where his treasure is buried.
“We got to hide, Fentin,” I said, pulling at his arm. “If they spy us, we’ll get no mercy.”
He stood firm. “Can I trust you?” he asked.
“What?” I said, desperately looking out to sea and back at Fentin.
“Can I trust you?” he said, his face calm.
“Aye. Nay. Does it matter? I’ll not burn you alive over a bonfire for fun, and that’s a good bit better than what ye’ll get standing here!” I said.
“What’s your name?” he said, quietly, almost in a whisper.
“You know my name, I’m Lady-“ I said.
“No. Your birth name. The name yer Ma and Pa gave you when they looked down into your crib,” he said, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Please, let’s go,” I said, knowing with each second the rowboat was getting closer. If there was a spyglass on it and they were looking this way, it might already be too late.
“Abbey,” I said, my eyes looking down. “Named for the church my Ma left me at. Abbey Blessed is what the Sisters o’ the Holy Christ sought to name me.” I raised my eyes and found his meeting mine.
“It is nice to meet you, Abbey Blessed. I do like that name much better than Lady Brass,” he said. His lip curled up into a smile. “Fits you better.”
“Harumph!” I said, crossing my arms and turning away from him. How dare this scaly minnow mock me. Yes, he was fair to lay eyes on, and his cock would surely give a good ride. But there were men like that aplenty. Find me a man who knew when to keep his mouth shut. A man like that would be worth his weight in silver.
Dancing Bearback (BBW Shifter Cowboy Western Romance) (Bear Ranchers Book 3) Page 106