A Kiss in the Wind

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “You’d best stop fightin’ me. Capt’n ordered me to get ya to him. Didn’t say I had to keep ya in one piece.”

  She stopped, digging her heels into the ground, and looked up at him. His short tuft-like beard framed a taunting smile as he shrugged. Squelching the fear, she tackled her will. His sheer size had caused her momentary loss of control. He might be big, but big didn’t mean smart. “All right,” she said. “Take me to see your captain.”

  He did not loosen his grip to her arm as she had hoped. Wise he was for she would escape from the brute the first chance he gave her. But how smart could he be, after all? Any brainpower would have to be drained just to keep him standing upright. She was ready for the challenge. If only she could reach one of the three daggers she had hidden under her dress.

  They made their way down the dirty street and cut across an alley. The man didn’t bother sticking to the dark recesses away from the revealing street lanterns. He guided her along in lumbering strides aware no one would be foolish enough to confront him and his charge. She had to walk quickly lest he drag her. And if her feet failed her, she believed he would drag her, all the way to the tips of Tyburn’s boots.

  “Do you think you could slow down?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “How about not holding my arm so tight?” A nasty bruise had begun to form where his sausage fingers dug into her.

  “No.” He kept his eyes forward.

  Maybe if she kept talking, she could distract him enough to loosen his hold. Then she could get to a weapon.

  “What do you suppose Captain Tyburn wants with me?”

  “T’ain’t me bidness.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  The beast gave no reply.

  “Well, what’s your name? What do they call you?”

  Silence. Try again.

  “Not a man of many words, are you?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you his slave?”

  His short laugh ended in a sneer and a tighter grasp. “I belong to no one. Not even t’e devil has t’e courage.” He laughed again, a booming boldness.

  If Marisol could retrieve her dagger, she would merely anger him with a flesh wound. Nay, she would need to wait for when he let her arm go, reasoning she would be faster in a foot chase.

  He led her down another narrow alley and knocked on the only door. She almost missed it in the blackness until it swung open to greet them. She couldn’t go in. If she did cross the threshold, her chances of making a break drastically dropped. She had to think fast.

  She looked to the gangly man holding the door open, ushering them in with his waving hand. His eyes darted to the obscurity behind them, restless in scanning the dark. As Marisol and the titan moved forward, the man stuck his head out to peer down the alley for anyone following them.

  In one swift sweep, Marisol grabbed the doorman’s gulley knife hanging from his belt. Thrusting up her elbow to connect with his jaw, she knocked him back with such force he slammed into the wall. She brought the blade down slicing at her captor’s wrist. He howled and let her go, stumbling back with his hand raised before his face. Stunned, he howled again looking from the cut gushing blood back directly at her. Before he could react, she stabbed the knife into his thigh. Letting go of the handle, she spun around and ran back down the alley.

  Challenge met. And she didn’t even have to bloody her own knife. She smiled at her resourcefulness. Her heart raced with the excitement close calls always seemed to bring. That triumphant feeling of besting those who would see her ruin. What would that make? Her seventh? Eighth escape? And without Alain’s help this time.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the large man yank the blade from his leg. His head shot up at her retreat, but he did not budge from the doorway. He wasn’t following. Only his inflamed stare chased after her. She was almost out of the alley. Once she made the street, there would be no stopping her from getting away. Why wasn’t he coming for her?

  His words replayed in her mind. “What t’e Capt’n wants…”

  She turned forward and slammed headlong into a hard wall. Falling on her arse, she cursed at the painful collision and looked up to see Captain Blade Tyburn scowling down at her.

  “…t’e Capt’n gets.”

  Chapter Three

  “Ah, Miss Castellan. Please don’t tell me you mean to insult me by denying my company.” Blade couldn’t suppress the sharpness of his tone. He didn’t want to. What he wanted was to shake her until his cameo fell free from wherever she kept it hidden. No one, no one touched his cameo. This wench would pay handsomely for stealing it. Oh yes, handsomely.

  He ground his teeth as she skittered on her bottom away from him. “Didn’t your mama teach you good manners?” He gave his head a disgusted shake. “It’s condemnable not to give a man his respect.”

  The lass snorted at that, still putting distance between them. That is, until she backed into a pair of massive legs the size of tree trunks. Blade laughed to himself with the widening of her eyes. No chance for an escape now.

  “Maybe someone needs to teach you manners right and proper.” He smirked. Aye, he liked the sound of that. An image flashed into his mind of disciplining the naughty lass. But it faded just as quickly with the image of his precious cameo.

  “For a man to get respect, he must first earn it,” Marisol asserted.

  Blade squatted before her, twisting his mouth into a contemptuous sneer. “Tell me, chit. Do you also think one must earn the right to keep her pretty little head?”

  If the lass was scared of him, she hid it well. Instead, she stared boldly into his eyes. What was she thinking? If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was assessing her situation. Calculating her next move.

  “What? No opinion? Good, you are already learning your place. A quick study.” He stood up. “Come. You must be eager to unburden yourself. Let Sam, here, show you the way.”

  Blade ignored the rough handling Sam displayed as he yanked Marisol to her feet and pulled her along. By the looks of the bloody wounds she inflicted upon him, the gargantuan buccaneer showed considerable restraint, if only because Blade expected it of him. As they passed through the doorway to the back room of a bakery, Lansky the baker stepped away, giving them a wide berth. The fellow rubbed at his chin, eyeing Marisol warily. A tendril of amusement twined around Blade’s hostility. She must be crafty to evade two men at once. He would have really enjoyed witnessing her daring flight. Sam would have to tell him later how she did it.

  Lansky closed and bolted the door shut behind them while Sam tugged the lass to stand in the middle of the room. They were in Lansky’s kitchen. The brick oven behind them smoldered, the fire inside dying out from the day’s last loaf of bread, and the space pressed in on him with heat. Flour covered every inch of the area. It shifted through the air with any movement someone made, settling on the table with the bowls, spoons and rolling pin, on the stools pushed to the side, and clinging to the walls in a dusty white layer.

  Blade observed Marisol as she surveyed the room. No doubt, looking for a way out. Odd that she didn’t show more fear. Odd that he found her confidence so alluring. Strong women had always held an attraction for him. Especially beautiful ones who didn’t seem to know, or care, how much danger they faced. At what point did strength turn into rash stupidity? Being held against her will by three men who might have any number of horrific ideas in mind for her welfare should make her tremble in fright. But no, she didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Not even when he spoke.

  “Allow me to get straight to the point.” He paced directly in front of her. “You have something of mine. Something that you will return to me post-haste.” He stopped and turned to face her with deliberate expectancy.

  When Marisol made no move to oblige him, his patience palled.

  “Where is my cameo?” He all but yelled at her, yet she didn’t even accommodate him with a flinch. Palling, his patience, palling fast.

  “I don’t have it.�
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  “Ah, so you admit to taking it.” The wench didn’t act as if he were demented, didn’t question him about what he spoke of, and didn’t inquire about what missing cameo. Aye, she knew exactly what he was after.

  “If it means so much to you why do you keep it in your pocket where anyone with a deft hand could take it?” She dared him with such an answer. Her delicate face remained without expression despite her brazen tongue.

  Fury invaded Blade’s mind. Rarely did he lose control of his temper, even among his enemies. But now he felt a sense of hopelessness as the strange feeling heaved over his usually unyielding forbearance. “Most people are not so foolish.”

  “I prefer the term enterprising.”

  If Blade hadn’t been trying so hard to keep from backhanding the woman, he would have laughed at her statement. It sounded remarkably familiar. Instead, he took a step back, an effort at restraint.

  “I shall count to three, dear lady.” He returned to pacing. “If by the time I make it to three and you have not produced my cameo, I shall search you for it myself.”

  “You may count as high as you like, but I do not have it.” Marisol crossed her arms, like a child too big for her pantaloons.

  Blade came forward, all too willing to search her. Whether to find his cameo or to rub his hands over her enticing curves, he couldn’t be sure. But the lass dropped her arms and backed away.

  “All right, all right.” She held her hands up to shield herself from his approach. “I have it hidden in my boot.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Good,” Blade said. She bent to reach into her shoe. “I’m glad you see that you have no other choice. Perhaps we can return to cordial—”

  Marisol lunged from her crouch, wielding a small knife, coming close to stabbing him in his stomach. He hopped to the side and grabbed her wrist. The momentum of her rushing forward coupled with him forcibly wrenching her arm upward twisted her body into what had to be a painful contortion. She landed on her back onto the powdery floor, yelping as he still held her arm up. His boot to her shoulder kept her from squirming and hurting herself further.

  That was the point of rash stupidity. Blade shouldn’t have been surprised by her trickery. He had watched her carefully in the alehouse as she wormed her way around the aggressive sot. He knew then the lass could take care of herself. He had found it refreshing and attractive. However, he now retracted those earlier impressions and replaced them with one of annoyance.

  Blade recognized the fire in her eyes, seen on many faces of the brave before they met their fate by his hand. It burned with the light of intrepid spirit. Blade considered the felled warrior’s demise as honorable. Any life he had taken that fought with courage was a life well deserved. Anything less seemed such a waste. Maybe he shouldn’t be hasty about her will to survive.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that.” He brought her to stand again and plucked the knife from her. Sam and Lansky stood by with their drawn pistols. Blade tossed the knife to Sam, who tucked it under his waistband.

  “I do, too,” Marisol replied. “I should’ve waited for a better chance.”

  This time Blade chuckled, shaking his head at her brass. “You give me no choice but to go ahead with searching you. Do take into account you will be shot should you try another half-witted attempt to flee.”

  “Understood.” She dismissed the gravity of her predicament with her nonchalant demeanor.

  “Fair warning, lass, my search will be thorough.” He smiled, adding, “And you may very well enjoy it.” But not as much as he.

  She stiffened under his touch as he placed both hands on her hips and rubbed upward along her close-fitting bodice to under her arms. She sucked in her breath when he slid his thumbs along the underside of her breasts, cupping them. Their shape was perfect, filling his hands nicely. The seams of his trousers strained under her subtle response. How many times had a woman held her breath while he caressed her in such a manner? The simple action had never gone unnoticed. He thrived on every movement, every minute reception, every sigh and every quiver a woman gave him under his touch.

  “I once knew of a lady who hid a valuable medallion between her breasts.” He drew his eyes up to meet her stare. They flickered, but not with fear. Nay, there was something else lying in those eyes, something less lucid. “I can’t risk not being sure.” Satisfied she hid nothing there, he lingered before he continued on lower. Her bodice concealed nothing, nothing but naked flesh underneath.

  Damn, he needed to stop thinking of her that way. He reminded himself that she stole his cameo. Focusing on that should keep him from wanting to throw her on the table and roll around kneading some dough of their own.

  He patted down her skirt. Feeling something round, he smiled at Marisol, confident of his find. He reached in her pocket and pulled out a folded paper and a silver piece. Holding up the coin, a heartbeat passed. This wasn’t his cameo. “What the hell is this?” he asked. Where the hell was his cameo? Panic surged, crashing through him with the thought of never holding his cameo again, of never rubbing his fingers over the raised relief or the smooth shell underside. Without his cameo, without its unrelenting, unforgiving memories, he would go mad.

  A hatred for the woman standing before him snagged him like rusted trolling hooks. He clenched the coin tight and shook his fist at her, startled by his building ire. He had never had such a feeling over a woman. No, he adored women. Women of all kinds, all shapes and sizes. He loved their smiles, their smells, their dispositions, no matter what their faults and shortcomings might be. In everything about a woman he could find a bit of paradise.

  But this one, well, he found himself wanting to strangle her, to take her cherished life from her as she took his cherished cameo from him. Oh yes, and she had made it easy. Especially since she seemed unconcerned with his being in high dudgeon. Rather, she showed more interest in the letter he held.

  The letter. No, it couldn’t be. He opened his palm to the coin and watched as Marisol tore her gaze away from the letter to the silver piece. Realization sank in. This vixen was responsible for the trouble back at the tavern. “Well,” he said. “It seems you are quite the pickpocket.” Opening the letter, he scanned the coded sentence quickly, pocketing the coin.

  “I believe the letter was intended for you,” Marisol stated. “By the queer way it was to be handed off to you, I’ve got to question if you are not some sort of charlatan yourself, sir.”

  Blade ignored her remark and refolded the paper. Someone else knew of the hefty silver shipment and they sent this trollop to ferret out information. Blade’s commission just got more interesting, and more dangerous. Maybe this voyage wouldn’t be as dreary as he first thought. But who would send a mere lass to do something so foolish and deadly as to cross him? “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me.” Her answer was tinged with gallantry and he thought of the dead messenger.

  “Who else knows of this?” He flashed the letter before putting it in his coat pocket.

  “No one.”

  “You lie.” He leaned his back against the table flush with the wall. “It will be in your best interest, Marisol, if you would be forthcoming.”

  “Or what, Captain Tyburn?” She fixed one hand to her hip. “Will you torture me until I talk? Are you that kind of man? Cruel and sadistic?”

  For finding out who sent her, no. But for his cameo…“Perhaps.” He repeated his question. “Who else knows of the silver shipment?”

  She leaned forward, stressing her words. “No one.”

  She would’ve been convincing if not for the way she looked away and raised her arm up as if reaching for her ear.

  Breaking glass shattered from the front of the bakery, startling them all. Blade grabbed Marisol’s arm and drew her with him to see what caused the loud crash. Better he keep her close than to have her use the diversion and take flight. They entered the small front room and stopped short, Sam and Lansky bumping into them from behind. Men were racing along out
side on the sidewalk brandishing blazing torches and hurtling bricks. A large torch flew through the jagged window igniting the lacy curtains and erupting into hungry flames as it landed in the middle of the floor.

  “Ack! My bakery!” Lansky grabbed a huge flour sack from the counter. He slung flour out of the open bag, sifting all of them heavily in the white powder. Thick puffs of the flour made it difficult to see and Lansky twirled around trying to get his bearings. His frantic movements caused more flour to fling out of the sack blanketing everyone and everything within its radius. Desperately waving their arms for clean air, the group wheezed and coughed. Blade sneezed on the fine meal clogged in his nose. Inhaling, he gagged at the grainy taste coating his mouth. With the dust stinging his eyes, he could barely make out Lansky’s silhouette holding the half-full bag.

  “No.” Blade hollered at Lansky, but he was too late. Lansky tossed the flour over the fire. The flames flattened then exploded, raging into bright life, reaching for the ceiling as it spread across the room, swallowing everything in its path.

  “Shit.” The heat seared at Blade’s exposed skin and his eyes burned. “Get out! Everyone, get out!” He still had Marisol by the arm, pushing her toward Sam as they retreated. “Lanksy! Come on! You can’t save it!”

  Lansky grabbed a pitcher filled with water and sloshed it onto the flames. He jumped at the liquid crackling and popping, and then the water disappeared as if the fire drank it away.

  “Lansky!”

  The baker turned and followed Blade on his heels, out the back and into the alley.

  The foursome stopped at the street, dust clouds settling around them as they coughed.

  “That was close.” Blade smacked at the bland paste in his mouth. “Any longer in there, and we would’ve been baked into crispy meat pies.”

  He patted at his clothing in a futile attempt to remove the layers of fine grain. As he waved away another wafting drift, he heard giggling. Marisol covered her lips with both hands, making a miserable attempt to conceal her laugh.