Yet it didn’t change the fact that he’d essentially assaulted her in her sleep. It didn’t take away from the fact that he’d kidnapped her and cut her hair. And that was what she intended to tell him when she pushed back the blankets and rolled off the bed.
She found her clothes, inside out and carelessly discarded across the floor. She scooped up the sweats and her t-shirt, and brought them to the bed. Both were dumped on the mattress. She was in the process of shaking the right leg of her pants the right way when the door blew open. The unexpected bang nearly sent her clean out of her skin, skin that was as naked as the day she’d been born.
Cora yelped and spun to face the looming figure stomping into the room. He too froze on the threshold, a tray of steaming oatmeal trapped between his enormous hands. Cora gasped and lunged for the sheets. She snatched them off the bed and hastily swung them around her rapidly pinkening body.
“It’s called knocking!” she cried, her voice shrill.
Nicholas didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, his dark eyes penetrating. They slid sideways to the bed, held for a full heartbeat before drifting back to her. Then down her, taking in her barely clad nudity with an expression of profound anonymity.
Beneath her bunched fingers gripping the sheets closed against her chest, Cora’s heart missed a step. It was that jolting sensation of tripping in the dark, of catching her toe on a curb; she felt her stomach flip.
Nicholas took a step. The sudden movement made her jump. Her feet scuttled back a step out of reflex and the back of her knees caught the cot frame. With a cry of surprise, she hit the mattress and bounced once, making the springs rattle and the structure squeak. She caught herself and stared at the man watching her through dark wisps of hair.
Her companion continued to say nothing as he eased forward. His powerfully graceful movement carried him the length of the room in four wide strides. The tray was set on the desk, emptying his hands. They lowered to his sides, all ten fingers curled. Veins bulged where the skin on his forearms were exposed.
“Get dressed.”
He left without another glance in her direction. The door banged closed behind him. Then it was just her and the erratic patter of her heart, and the coppery taste in her mouth. She waited for him to return, for the door to open again, but it remained firmly sealed. She counted five minutes before accepting it was safe to drop the sheet. She dressed quickly in her clothes, ran hurried hands through her hair, and padded to her breakfast.
It was oatmeal again with a glass of cold milk and two slices of toast, heavily buttered. When the giant of a man had brought it the day before, she hadn’t had the heart—or the courage—to tell him she hated oatmeal. The most she could do was eat the toast, drink the milk, and discreetly dump the brown mush into the trash bin.
She waited for someone to get the tray, or to take her back to her prison, but minutes passed and no one came. In the echoing, metallic hollowness of the room with the ocean howling outside, she felt like the only person on the whole planet. It was a frightening thought. The idea of never seeing her parents, her uncle again terrified her. It made her sick to her stomach. She could only imagine how worried they were not knowing what became of her. It only solidified her decision to escape the first chance she got. Whatever happened, she would find a phone and call her family. She would return to them, even if she had to jump into the ocean and ... well, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Trembling all over with nerves, Cora lunged to her feet. She paced from the bed to the desk and back. Her heart cracked in her chest, a frantic and angry beat filled with anxiety. It reached a point of madness before she couldn’t take it anymore.
She rushed to the door and yanked, half expecting it to be locked. Her oversight nearly sent her to the floor when the heavy sheet of metal swung inward. She caught it before it could hit the wall behind it and peered out into the corridor.
No guard. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not that that lured her into believing for a second that they weren’t somewhere. She’d already concluded that she was in some cargo ship, large enough to withstand the storm the night before with no damage, which meant she could run into someone at any time.
Feet securely wrapped in her socks, she tiptoed out of the cabin and made her way down the short corridor. The end stopped at a door and a series of stairs winding up and down. She chose up.
The final door opened to a corridor lined with a faded, paisley carpeting and low lighting. It went on for almost five minutes before the first break, a row of stairs to another floor. The sign bolted into the wall next to it depicting the ship’s navigation pronounced the upper level as the crew’s quarters. Other arrows directed her to various other compartments, the galley, the lounge, the crew’s rec room, the officer’s lounge, a restaurant, and a store. But it was the sign above her head, hanging from the ceiling labeled, exit that propelled her forward down a forking corridor on the left. It was much narrower than the last one and the lighting seemed more yellow than white. It made her think of an asylum, which didn’t fill her with much confidence. But she kept along the walls, not entirely sure why she was creeping around. It wasn’t like she could make any sort of grand escape. Yet she held her breath until she reached the door at the end. Her palm felt clammy when she reached for the knob. She pushed the door open and stepped through.
The three men seated side by side on the worn, leather sofa simultaneously froze in their chatter, in their movement, in their blinking. All heads jerked up and all faces settled on varying degrees of surprise. Confusion rippled through the brightly lit room and settled like fine dust on the furniture. It wove through the tension her unexpected presence had spilled into the space.
Cora swallowed. “Sorry,” she whispered at last, hoping to play the whole situation off as cool and slip out before anyone stopped her.
But they moved when she did. The one in the middle lunged to his feet and vaulted over the coffee table in a single leap. The small mound of tobacco being rolled into cigarettes, scattered with the rush of air. No one seemed to notice.
“What’s your hurry?” He reached the door before she could and slapped it shut. “Stay a while.”
In any situation, a woman trapped against her will by three men she didn’t know, or felt comfortable with, was a situation worth being terrified of. Cora was no exception. Without her gun, she was a five foot five inches child compared to the six feet, unshaven, unkempt giants restraining her. And from what she’d seen of the ship so far, even if she screamed, the odds of being heard by anyone who would give a shit were a million to one.
“I’d rather leave,” she told them firmly. “I made a wrong turn.”
“I don’t know about that,” said one of the men on the sofa, pausing in his licking of rolling paper. “Maybe you made the right turn.”
“Yeah, you should sit,” said the man keeping her from leaving.
“Thank you, but I’m looking for the Captain.” She hadn’t realized she was trembling until she caught the tip of her tongue between chattering teeth. “If you could direct me...”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, in a minute.” Her shoulders were grabbed despite her resistance and she was forced to where the other two sat. “We don’t get very many ladies onboard The Annie.”
“Stop it!” She wrenched out from beneath his driving hold and twisted away, successfully cornering herself between a wall and a bookshelf. “I want to leave. Open the door.”
The second man on the sofa snickered. “Listen to her acting like she’s the Queen of England.”
“Right?” agreed the one backing her further into the bookcase. “Can’t even say please.”
Christ, what was with these men and that word? But it wasn’t the time to think about James or his magic fingers.
“Can you please open the door,” she repeated, applauding her own bravado, even while her insides twisted and coiled with the urge to vomit.
“You look familiar,” said the one dogging her steps. “Are you some
one famous?”
“Maybe she really is the Queen of England,” said the roller with a chuckle.
“Naw, naw, I know you.”
Cora shook her head. “You’re mistaking me with someone else.”
That only served to narrow his eyes on her. “I’m really good with faces, and I know I’ve seen yours ... I’ve got it!” He clapped his hands together with a force that made Cora jump. “You’re Giovanni De Marco’s daughter.”
As if he’d declared she really were the Queen, the other two immediately stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Their mirrored expressions would have been comical if Cora’s heart hadn’t been swimming down into her stomach.
“No...”
Her protest was swallowed by the man’s hooting holler of triumph. He slapped his hands together again and rubbed them.
“We got ourselves a celebrity here, boys.” He laughed riotously. “Better than the Queen herself. This here, is fucking royalty.”
“Please...” She came up against the sharp corners of the shelf. It gouged into her lower spine and went completely unnoticed.
His smile vanished. “Your daddy is the reason my brother lost his house. Him and his three kids. He took everything from them.”
Any hope she may have had in convincing them to help her escape vanished with that declaration. One alarmed glance at the other two assured her she would get no help there either. Neither looked overly pleased by her family tree. In fact, they seemed as unsympathetic and murderous as the man closing in on her.
“I ... I’m sorry...” was the best she could do.
“You’re sorry? You? While you sit up in your mansion, sipping gold from crystal goblets?”
Cora resisted the urge to point out gold couldn’t be sipped. It didn’t seem like the right time to correct the person on the verge of strangling her.
“What do you think the Captain wants with her?” asked one of the other men.
“Don’t you know?” Roller scoffed, tossing a freshly rolled cigarette into a tin with a dozen others. “De Marco killed Crow’s whole family.”
That made even Cora blink.
But the man was still speaking. “Raped the shit out of his sister to pay for the money his dad owed.”
“That’s a mistake,” she whispered. “My dad would never—”
In the process of stuffing a sprinkling of tobacco into a fresh square of paper, the man stopped and looked up. “Then you’re stupider than you look.”
No one knew her father better than she did. She was under no illusion that what he did was right, or legal, but there were lines even he wouldn’t cross. Raping a girl, any girl, for any reason would never happen. Her mother organized anti-sexual violence charities twice a year, for crying out loud. Her father donated to them heavily each time. It just wasn’t possible.
“Maybe Captain’ll repay De Marco by doing the same to his precious little girl.”
Cold slivers of fear washed through her. They escalated when the man nearest to her lunged forward. The attack tore a scream from her that was abruptly silenced by the clasp of his hand over her mouth. The bookcase dug into her spine with the ferocity of a dagger. The back of her head collided with a shelf under the force of his assault, sending stars sparkling.
“Maybe we should do it ourselves,” he snarled into her face with breath that reeked of onion dip. “Your dad ruined a lot of our lives. I think we deserve something for the pain.”
Struggling against him, struggling to breathe, Cora fumbled for a weapon. The shelf wasn’t clattered with things, but the sharp point of something hard and plastic stabbed her palm. She snatched it up and swung. It cracked against the side of his face, splintering the double pressed picture frame where his skull collided.
The man reared back, clutching at the gash the edge had created across his face. Cora seized the opportunity and bolted for the door. She made it as far as halfway when it was flung open on its own. James charged in. His gaze swung over the room and stopped when he spotted her. He took one look at her and the panic in her eyes, then the man holding his cheek and bared his teeth.
“What did you do?”
The man shook his head. “Nothing, sir. We were only talking to her.”
James seemed to believe that as much as Cora did, but he took her by the elbow and dragged her to him.
“Did he touch you?”
It took her a moment to crawl through the buzzing still thick between her ears to properly understand his meaning. But she shook her head, and was promptly shoved out the door.
“What did I tell you about going near her?”
The door slammed shut on the rest of his words. Cora stared at the closed barricade, heart still jackhammering in her chest.
“You’re bleeding.”
Cora sucked in a startled breath and turned to face the figure behind her. “What?”
Nicholas met her gaze with that unwavering intensity of his and took a single step forward. “Your hand is bleeding.”
Bemused, Cora lowered her chin and peered at the shallow gash across the width of her hand. In the chaos and adrenaline, she hadn’t even felt it, yet blood was running through her fingers and speckling across the floor in splattered drops.
“Oh!” She balled her fingers to staunch the flow. “I must have cut it on the picture frame.”
He didn’t ask which frame. He didn’t seem to care as he reached to unfurl her fist. Each finger was gently splayed so he could look more closely at the injury.
“It’s not bad,” was his go at reassuring her.
She started to tell him she knew that, but he was leading her away from the lounge and the men, and James, back the way she’d come. The thought of being locked up in a room again almost made her want to yank away.
“Please don’t take me back,” she murmured, realizing it was a futile attempt, but needing to say something. “I’ll go crazy and kill myself.”
The last part was a bit dramatic and she knew it, but it stopped him. His chin turned carefully and with consideration over his shoulder. He eyed her, maybe trying to determine her seriousness.
“I’m kidding,” she muttered with a sigh. “It’s just so boring in there.”
His head tilted back a notch, narrowing his eyes. “I would be very careful about using those words around the Captain.”
She was given no further explanation as he continued onward with her uninjured hand still in his.
He didn’t take her back to her cell, or James’s quarter. She found them in a secondary lounge with the same leather sofas and dark wood furniture. Only difference was the state of them; everything was pristine, perfectly kept. Even the stench of tobacco, sweat, and feet were absent. The whole place smelled of lemons and ocean mist.
“This must be the officer’s lounge,” she mused. “I saw the sign,” she added when he flicked her with a sidelong glance.
He motioned her mutely to the nearest sofa and left her to make his way over to the attached kitchen tucked against one corner. Cupboards were opened, items were shifted around before he returned with a first-aid kit.
Cora lowered herself down gingerly on the edge of a cushion and watched him. He moved with the same commanding authority as James, but unlike James, Nicholas wore the expression of someone stalking into battle. She wondered if he laughed with that scowl twisting his eyebrows together and what that would look like. But something told her this wasn’t a man who did a lot of laughing.
James took that moment to stomp into the room, his expression twisted into a knot of barely suppressed fury. His gaze found hers almost immediately and he crossed the five feet in two strides. Cora opened her mouth to assure him she was fine, when long, toned fingers closed around her chin. Her face was tugged up with surprising gentleness and he studied the handprint across her mouth.
“What were you doing out of your room?” He released her and took a step back.
“I wasn’t in my room,” she reminded him.
A muscle bunched in h
is jaw. “What were you doing wandering the ship? Do you have any idea how dangerous ... how stupid that was?”
“I wasn’t wandering.” She lowered her gaze. “I was bored...”
“Bored?” James’s face bunched into one of confusion, like the very word was foreign. “Do you know what could have happened to you? What they could have done?”
The horrific possibilities had occurred to her the moment she’d been sealed into that room, not before. Before that moment, she had only wanted to explore the heap of metal she’d been confined to.
“James.” Nicholas’s gaze held warning that was met with a deep inhalation from the other man.
James took the kit. He swung one leg over her lap and propped himself down on the coffee table with both her knees wedged between his thighs. The kit was set on the table next to him and snapped open.
“It was stupid,” he muttered, rifling through neatly packed rolls of gauze and bandages. “And careless.”
“I can’t just sit in an empty room for the rest of my life,” Cora complained.
He said nothing as he took her hand in his. In the confines of his palm, her hand appeared tiny and lost. She noted with fascination, that his were littered with tiny, white scars. The long fingers were capped with tattered knuckles, like he spent his weekends in a brawl. The nails were torn short with the tattered edges of a nail biter.
Something about that amused her, and Cora found herself grinning before she could bite it back.
“What?”
Her gaze flicked away from his careful cleaning of her wound with antiseptic and cotton to find him already watching her.
She shook her head. “I didn’t think pirates were allowed to be nail biters.”
Heavily lashed eyelids descended so he too was peering at his fingers. “That’s the beauty of being a rebel.” Humor danced across the warm surface of his eyes when they lifted to her face once more. “I can do whatever I want.”
Blood Script Page 9