Sweet Vengeance

by St. Michel, Elizabeth

  Captain Lee stood on his foredeck screaming orders. Another cannon blast rent the air, proving the Civis’s defensive efforts pointless. Lee’s outrage transformed to shock, the miscalculation of an enemy and his impending doom.

  Abby clawed at her bonds and swiveled to search the gloom. The gray mast of a ship loomed out of the heavy mist. It towered the merchantman and barreled alongside, furling tops and mainsail, stripping to mizzen and sprit. No way could the Civis, boasting only six guns and a limited supply of powder, maneuver away from the more agile, heavily weaponed ship that bore down on them.

  Fire!” Lee ordered. A barrage of shot from the Civis whistled over the American’s main deck, missing line and rigging, an errant shot knocked the breasts off the figurehead at the bow.

  There was a quick intake of breath among the seamen, and then all at once, a deafening roar, and the merchantmen vibrated. The privateer swept up at such a speed the hulls rammed like a meteor crashed into the earth. Abby’s bonds ripped free and she cried out, pounding the deck, half stunned as gun-rails collided, splintering and shattering.

  Through the curling smoke, men sprawled on their bellies. Her heart hammered and her nails dug into her palms.

  “Lady Abigail, free me.”

  Through the horror, Simeon roused her. She grabbed a sword and swung to free him. The clunk of metal, digging into wood, grappling hooks cast over the merchantmen’s side exploded adrenaline like quicksilver through her veins.

  Privateers! Dozens of them, swarmed onto the deck from the other ship. Men fell, spouting blood on the deck from great, black gashes, and screams of agony sounded chillingly amid the din of gunfire. Burning gunpowder and fresh blood drifted up and roiled her stomach. Abby grabbed Simeon’s hand and vaulted over bodies, dodging swords and cutlasses, her ears ringing with the clangor of battle. Barely ten paces, One-Ear crumpled, his smile frozen, his eyes vacant, staring to the heavens. Captain Lee stood skewered and collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs, his face contorted in anguish as he writhed helplessly before her eyes.

  Abby halted, welded to the deck, a helpless, terrified witness of a horrific spectacle, both fascinated and repelled by the awful violence. A hand tugged at her sleeve. Abby looked up at Simeon, his face pale beneath the grime.

  Run. Now. Make your quicksand feet move before you’re dead.

  Abby dodged fallen bodies and sword thrusts with incredible agility. She stumbled behind a knot of barrels and collapsed. Simeon squeezed in beside her, concealing them with a tarp, a ridiculous gesture. There existed no haven for them. Her fingers trembled, the tumult of battle surrounded them, ebbing and flowing. Suspense pounded through her body, building an awful, almost unbearable tension. The battle raged—an endless, desperate struggle. When would it end? If only she had a hint to what was happening. She detected nothing beyond the thunder of guns and the cries of the wounded. The ship tilted. Would they sink? She peeked through a slit, darkness and smoke filled the distance. Simeon clasped her hand, white-knuckled she clung to him, gaining no comfort.

  No longer could she bear the suspense. She jumped up. Simeon yanked her down. “Do not risk your life in that bloodlust. If we survive the battle, you must maintain your disguise.”

  Darkness and smoke filled the distance as she dared to peer through a slit. The night grew strangely quiet. She strained her ears for some sound. No gunfire, no screaming, nothing. A wind whistled eerily over the barrels. Waiting, she bit her lip, tasting the bitterness of smoke.

  Boots pounded up from the companionway. “Captain Thorne! It’s like you predicted. The Civis has a treasure in her hold, guns, powder, casks of hardware and wine.”

  Captain Thorne! The rebel, who incensed the Admiralty, enraged the King, terrified maids to cross themselves and hide beneath their beds. He was the terror of the seas and she was in his clutches. Dare she jump ship and become a feeding frenzy for sharks?

  “Have you made a search for everyone on board?”

  “Aye, Captain, best we could tell.”

  “Empty the Civis at once before she sinks. Chain the surviving sailors in our hold,” a baritone voice demanded. Was it a trick of her mind the familiarity of that voice?

  With trembling hands, Simeon wiped grease from the barrels on her cheeks and tugged her cap over her ears. “Let me do the talking. The Americans hate aristocracy a hundredfold.”

  The tarp ripped away and she and Simeon were hauled from their hiding place. A bright lantern glowed from the mizenmast. Abby blinked. The privateers gaped at them, their eyes bright and suspicious. They were a motley horde, dressed in grubby, bloodstained breeches and striped jerseys, with sweat gleaming on muscled arms and dark growths of beard on their wary faces.

  And then, from out of the uncouth mob of feral beasts, strode a tall muscular man with cobalt eyes in a tanned face, eyes that blazed the light of dreadful determination.

  The Vicar!

  Abby’s legs trembled. She locked her knees into place. The ship spun dizzily. Never would she faint. She was a Rutland. No, her mind had been tricked by an over-active, sleep-deprived, twisted imagination. The vicar emerged as Satan himself, brandishing a sword, and with a brace of pistols and razor-sharp knives tucked in his belt. Was it possible sulfur fumes rose from him?

  The crew melted away. Abby barely noticed them, her eyes primed to the man who stepped past them and stood, legs apart, facing her. Gone was the severe black dress of the vicar. He seemed taller, more powerfully-built, wearing black satin breeches and a white silk shirt, open at the throat, exposing his sun-burnished skin. The shirt lay damp with sweat and clung to his body, revealing bulging muscles in his arms and shoulders. His hips were slim above thick, powerful thighs. His black hair was ruffled by the wind, and she observed the expressive sweep of his dark brows, the sensuous bow of his lips−lips she remembered only too well. Even now, she could remember their texture, taste and feel.

  One hand poised solidly on his hip, and in his other hand, he held a sword…pointed directly at her. There was no humble cleric about him now, only the fusion of primitive predatory instinct, and indisputable command.

  Simeon crossed himself, crumpling under the worst of their fears, the reality of the American privateer that struck terror in the hearts of so many.

  He spoke to them most eloquently. “You will save yourselves pain and trouble if you willingly concede to surrender, suffering no losses to yourselves. Or−” he swept his arm in a broad gesture behind him to the dead “−you can fight and join your companions.”

  Words stuck in her throat. Simeon hyperventilated to the point of passing out, and she feared his age and taxed heart would be the death of him.

  Captain Thorne swaggered to within inches of her, his sword resting on her throat. Abby swallowed. “Be aware, I ask politely only once. After that, I’ll not let my charity stand in the way of exercising what is necessary.” He jerked his head to his men. “You have many of my crew to verify my contention.”

  How dare he torment an old man? Something broke inside her, a bit of the terror seeped away, replaced by a hot, bursting fury that swelled through her like a powerful tsunami. Tired of the bullying and living in fear, she shoved the sword away, glared mutinously at him, then stepped forward, her two giant boots with the toes curled up, grazing his shiny black ones.

  He raised an eyebrow. “It seems the lad wishes to do battle,” he said to the men about him, his expression amused. A hearty burst of laughter followed. “I admire a lad with spirit. Do you have a name?”

  She squirmed uneasily. On the Civis she had been crudely called, slave.

  “You do have a name, don’t you?” Captain Thorne inquired with a hint of sarcasm.

  She nodded in the affirmative. “Uh−Ab-Abe, sir. She nodded her head more vigorously.

  “What’s your friend called?”

  He referred to Simeon who was now plagued with hiccups. “Simeon.” So much for Simeon doing the talking.

  “You have an economy on words. Mind informi
ng me why you two were tied to the mast before we attacked?”

  Abby exhaled. How fortunate that their plight aboard the Civis had earned them an offer of sympathy. A better door could not have opened and she seized the opportunity with gusto. “We were both kidnapped and put on the Civis, used as slaves.” Adopting the language of her father’s worst crofter, Abby lowered her voice and told of Simeon’s plight, colorfully adding her own details to demonstrate the brutality of England’s aristocracy. She spat on the deck.

  The captain rubbed a hand through his hair. “What is your story, boy?”

  She didn’t speak and turned away, her eyes brimmed with threatening tears. The image of her family’s demise wavered in front of her as if it had happened the day before.

  Jacob noted the lad’s distress and pointed to Simeon to speak. He had seen the two of them lashed to the ship’s mast that had hastened his taking the Civis. He wanted answers.

  The old man worried his hat in his hands and quelled his hiccupping. “The lad is newly orphaned, his parents good folk murdered by vile miscreants. With no one to turn to, he ended up cold, starved and living on the streets, begging for food. To satisfy his gnawing hunger, he stole a mere loaf of bread from a duke’s kitchen. For that offense alone, he was enslaved on Captain Lee’s ship, beaten and the object of abuse by the crew. The boy defended himself against two of the crew members. In the scuffle, the navigator fell on his friend’s sword. In Captain Lee’s eyes, we were guilty. Our termination was decided.”

  Thorne eyed the lad who held his head down. Jacob guessed the old man had assumed the role of protector, weaving an excellent tale with parts true and the rest with the right dash of woe. There remained not one dry eye among his crew. Thorne sighed. He was not convinced.

  The lad had spunk, dared to meet him toe to toe when any other man normally quivered. Thomas, his cousin had that same defiant impulsiveness.

  Thorne wrinkled his nose. A bin of rotted fish smelled better. Dirt smudged face and tufts of dark greasy hair stuck out from beneath the lad’s hat. He rested on a barrel and placed his sword tip into the deck, drumming his fingers on the hilt. “What skills do you both have?”

  Simeon straightened and puffed out his chest. “I was a cook. An excellent one, sir.”

  A murmur spread favorably among the crew. Thorne nodded. “Good. You can replace our cook who died in the skirmish.” Not having a decent cook was almost as bad as not having a navigator. And you, lad? What can you offer?”

  The boy looked down at his oversized boots. “I can clean the ship.”

  “I have a proposal for you. You can be my cabin boy, keeping my room clean and running errands about the Vengeance. If you excel and work hard, you’ll be taught the skills of seamanship and earn a coin or two.”

  “Cabin boy?” Abby’s mouth dropped open. The captain perceived it to be overwhelming gratitude. To be in close confines was impossible. How could she avoid him?

  “Well I ain’t emptying no chamber-pot, the food better not be crawling with maggots, don’t expect me to sing “Yankee Doodle,” and I don’t fancy shootin’ anyone.” She wiped her nose on the back of her dirty sleeve. How easy the crofter’s speech came to her.

  Then Captain Thorne did something that made her question his sanity. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I won’t require you to shoot anyone. Anymore demands?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain Thorne,” Simeon interrupted. “The boy’s been through a lot. He’s grown attached to me and will work well in the kitchen.” Simeon moved a pace to speak low and confidingly, “The lad’s simple, if you get my drift.”

  Simple! Her teeth grated as Simeon’s inventiveness escalated. But in Thorne’s lair? No way. “I’ll scrub your deck until you can see your face in it, but I ain’t going to be no cabin boy.”

  A long, lean finger thrust into her face, almost meeting the tip of her nose. “Now look, lad. You can bet I’ll take some of the starch out of your breeches if I need to. I’ve saved you from Captain Lee, but I have no intention of playing nursemaid to any quick-tempered little ragamuffin. So have a care for your manners.”

  Abby folded her arms in front of her. “I can take care of meself.”

  Captain Thorne scoffed in disbelief. “By the looks of you, somebody needs to take you in hand. When did you last wash, when you were born?”

  “You’re the most meddling rebel I’ve ever met.’

  “And how many have you met?”

  Abby stared belligerently. “You’re the first.”

  Thorne chuckled and rose, apparently impatient to get under way. He clapped her on the shoulder and she stumbled. “If nothing else, Abe, you should make for interesting company as my cabin boy,” he emphasized, tolerating no refusal to his command.

  She remained mute, pointedly ignoring him, then stared off into the distance behind him. Abby inhaled. Captain Lee raised his pistol. There was no time for warning. She ripped a knife from Thorne’s belt and threw. The knife spiraled, end over end, flashing in the air. A gun exploded. A shower of wood-splinters fell from the rigging.

  Air whooshed out of her lungs. The crew tackled her, pinning her to the deck. Her arms jerked behind her back, curses deafened her ears. The tangy scent of blood ousted the smoke wafting away on the breezes.

  “Let go of the lad.” Thorne’s baritone thundered.

  Abby scrambled to her feet, pulling down her hat. A knife protruded from Captain Lee’s black heart, the gun in his hand smoked, the barrel pointing skyward. The shot intended for Thorne’s back. Her stomach heaved to her throat.

  Dear God! She had killed a man.

  Thorne waved his crew off. “I owe you a great debt for saving my life. The lad has skill and will make a fine cabin boy.” His crew murmured their agreement but his gaze probed hers. “You’ll protect my back as long as I don’t find a knife in it.”

  And then Abby vomited on his boot.

  Chapter 3

  For three days aboard the Vengeance, and under Simeon’s watchful eye, Abby learned the elements of cleaning the captain’s quarters, dusting, polishing, and organizing the room’s contents to the highest of standards. No way did she desire to incur Thorne’s wrath. Didn’t he measure up to his reputation during the takeover of the Civis? She winced. Would she ever accomplish the square corners on the bedding?

  Having maids to do all her bidding, she had never paid attention to their labors and the difficulties they went through to make her life so easy. If she had a stain on her gown, it was cleaned or discarded and replaced. If she chose not to rise, breakfast was brought to her on a silver tray. When she fell ill, a doctor was summoned. If her stallion didn’t please her, a new thoroughbred was pulled from the stable. Jewels, furs, silks, satins, every amusement, every luxury was provided before she even thought of it. Everything she had taken for granted.

  She twisted the sheet in her hands. “Simeon, there were at least two men involved in the plot against my family. Do you think there are more?” Round and round she worked the puzzle in her head. How many times had she gone over the scenario with Simeon?

  Thorne charged into the cabin, bringing the wind with him and tossing his tricorn where it skittered across the table. “Why is Simeon here?”

  Abby released the sheet. To dive out the gallery windows presented a better option than meeting the wicked Captain Thorne face to face. Images of the carnage from the battle loomed and she lowered her chin, a conscious act, ensuring her overlarge boots, and tattered coat buttoned to the neck hid her femininity. From habit, she pulled her hat down. Now she would earn a cuffing for she was incapable of making a bed. She gripped the sheet within her hands, bracing for a blow.

  Simeon stepped between her and the captain. Her heart went out to him. “The boy’s been ill-used, and simple,” he pointed to his head, “needing me to instruct him how to do his job. He wants to please you, sir.”

  “Then tell him to quit cowering. Where’s the spirit I saw three days ago?” Thorne waved
Simeon aside. “You’re dismissed.”

  Abby interpreted the directive to include her. She hitched her pants and shuffled to the door only to get yanked back by the collar. She choked. No way did she want to be alone in the cabin with Thorne. So far, she had cleaned his quarters when he was elsewhere on the ship, then bolted to stay under Simeon’s protection in the galley−anywhere Thorne was not.

  “Not you,” he spoke to Abby. “Finish the cabin. Simeon, my stomach’s rumbling. Tell me what victuals you plan for dinner?”

  In the doorway, Simeon straightened like a peacock preening his feathers. “Braised beef with dried mushrooms and onions slowly roasted in a cabernet wine sauce with herbed potatoes. Do you wish your coffee served with your meal or with your apple flan dessert?”

  Thorne slid into a seat and groaned. “Do whatever you wish. You warm my heart on this foul-weathered day. My crew and I will be fat as elephants.”

  Simeon glanced to Abby. “I best bake the bread so it will be served warm with the meal.”

  Abby rolled her eyes and snapped the sheets in place. Simeon’s rapture with Thorne’s praises galled her. Men and their stomachs. That’s all they thought of. One more week of platitudes, Simeon’s head would swell the size of a barrel. But to censor him equaled betrayal. Nobility parceled compliments, considering the act beneath them. Servants served and earned ridicule for their efforts. She was suddenly ashamed of her class.

  “Abe, you can come and help peel apples when you are done with your duties,” said Simeon, offering her an excuse before he departed.

  The cabin closed in on her. The sheets refused to line up. She bumped into a table and books upended, clattering to the floor. She muttered apologies and skittered out of Thorne’s range in case he decided to strike her. Yet he remained unaware of her presence, engrossed in calculating his charts, making markings and writing in his log. She tucked the soft blankets under the mattress and studied him. On the tip of her tongue remained many questions. Thorne’s relationship with the Banfield’s, peers of the crown whose loyalty exhibited the highest integrity. And he had been invited to her ball as a vicar. The pieces didn’t fit. Humphrey, a bit of a whey-face, was the most easygoing soul who would think twice before stepping on an insect, opposed to his so-called pirate cousin who wielded guns, swords and knives without the slightest provocation.