The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  “He’ll be looking fer a den,” O’Leary said.

  “A den?”

  “Yeah. A hookah den. He always goes straight fer the opium whenever he comes ta the continent. Don’t worry. Where there’s smoke, we’ll find him.”

  “Good. Then ya both go in search of smoke and I’ll––” She caught Tavish’s eye. “No, Tavish, I do not need ya ta watch over me. We have ta find him before they land, and we’re wasting time as it is. Find One Eye, meet me at the blacksmith’s, and be ready ta ride.”

  O’Leary and Tavish stared sheepishly at each other.

  “Well, now what?”

  “I never rode a horse,” O’Leary confessed. “Too big and scary fer me blood.”

  Tavish nodded. “I have, but I got bucked off. Twice.”

  Quinn shook her head in frustration. “Jesus. How have ya lived? Never mind the horses. I’ll try ta rustle up a carriage of some sort. Just find One Eye. Keep yer heads down and watch fer Drake’s men ta land. I don’t want ta have ta fight ta rescue either of ya.”

  Both men nodded.

  “Ya know how ta ride a horse?” O’Leary asked.

  “I do, but that won’t help us now. I’ll see ya at the blacksmith’s.” Quinn turned and sprinted back to the small fishing village in search of a carriage that could take the four of them to safety. She had the money to do so. She just needed––

  “Where ya goin’, Irishman?”

  A short stump of a man blocked her path, his hands jammed on his hips. “Couldn’t help but notice yer ship left without ya.”

  Quinn stopped, her eyes scanning the area for an escape route. “The English don’t care ta share. Know what I mean?”

  He was clearly Irish and looked vaguely familiar, standing with his hand now on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Don’t remember me, do ya?”

  Quinn’s gaze moved from his face to his hand, and to his face again. “I do not.”

  The man chuckled. “Of course ya don’t. The throwaways never matter.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “No, but ya follow that bitch like a flea-ridden puppy dog, dontcha? Just like them others who come when she whistles.”

  Quinn laid her hand on her hilt. “Call her that again, donkey boy, and ya shan’t live ta regret it.”

  A slow grin curled menacingly at the corners of his lips. “Oh really? And ya think ya can best me? Me? A man deemed unfit to serve on that cunt’s piece o’ shite boat?” Pulling his sword free, he took a fighting position. “But if ya think ya have what it takes in yer belly ta best the likes a’ me, then bring out yer blade, boy.”

  Quinn did not pull her weapon. “Captain O’Malley wants a strong crew. That would not include weak men like ya.”

  “Weak? Any man who would follow a bitch on a ship is the weakest kind a’ man.”

  Quinn slowly withdrew her long sword. “I told ya not ta call her that. Say what ya will about me or the crew, but keep yer fuckin’ mouth shut about Grace O’Malley.”

  “Or I won’t live ta regret it?”

  Quinn took her stance opposite his and touched her sword to his. “Actually, ya won’t live another five minutes.” Quinn clanged her sword against his, and as his sword fell to the right, she slid one of her throwing daggers from her thigh sheath and rammed it under his breastbone, stabbing him through the heart.

  As he slid to his knees, Quinn retracted the dagger and knelt down so they were face-to-face.

  “The irony of this, you ignorant bastard, is that you’ve just been killed by a bitch.” Stepping back, she pushed him to his back and continued on her way.

  Had she looked back, she would have seen Tavish standing in the shadows directly behind where she’d just been... wearing the strangest expression on his face.

  ***

  Finding no carriage, Quinn started back to the blacksmith shop, hoping like mad that they’d found One Eye. Without a carriage, they would be forced onto horseback, and she didn’t see that ending very well.

  As Quinn walked briskly back to the village, she noted the darkening of the sky. It matched her mood. Drake might be docked by now. Every moment mattered if they were to get out of here alive.

  Quinn absentmindedly turned the coin over in her hand. Drake being in Oporto wasn’t a good thing, nor was it serendipitous. Clearly, he had made an arrangement of some sort with the Portuguese sailors regarding shipments of slaves, and it was quite possible he was looking for Grace every bit as much as she was looking for him.

  She hoped not.

  Everyone on the water knew the Portuguese preferred sailing south along the coast of Africa where the hunting and capture of Africans for the slave market was abundant. They did not like the roughness and unpredictability of the Irish Sea, so trading with Drake on their own soil was a much safer prospect––safer for the Portuguese, safer for Drake, but not so much for the Africans. Or anyone who stumbled onto their path.

  Drake was going directly against his queen by consorting with the Portuguese. Since Portugal and Spain had become allies, they had been a thorn in England’s side. Elizabeth disdained the Catholic countries that also allied with Catholic Scotland.

  Drake was working on the side and probably keeping a hefty bit of the proceeds for himself.

  Quinn shook her head. The English had no sense of loyalty. Look at Elizabeth’s father, she thought. Henry VIII couldn’t stay loyal for a moment to any woman or religion. The English, unlike the rest of the people they shared geography with, lacked the rigid loyalty that their neighbors so valued. They could be bought and sold to the highest bidder.

  And that made them very dangerous.

  She wondered what Elizabeth would say if she knew what Drake was up to.

  As Quinn rounded the corner, she stopped dead. Already, Drake’s men were filing off the ship, their voices loud in their reverie.

  “Damn it.” Quinn pressed her back against a wall. She was still a ways away from the smithy and had no idea where her men were.

  None.

  A soft voice came from behind her, speaking in Portuguese. Quinn turned to find the woman she’d been with earlier standing in a small doorway.

  The woman looked left, then right, and motioned for Quinn to come inside, which she did.

  “Gracias,” Quinn said softly when the door closed behind them, hoping she was close. Together, they walked down a dark, narrow hallway until they came to a room with three doors on either side. The wench took the last door on the left and pulled Quinn into it just as a loud ruckus could be heard in the small atrium.

  The woman placed her finger to her mouth, indicating to Quinn for a silence she had no intention of breaking. When the voices got nearer, she opened a battered wardrobe closet and pushed Quinn into it.

  “In,” the young woman said. “Por favor.”

  The nearness of a deep voice by the door prodded Quinn into the armoire just as a loud knock came to the door.

  “Silencio,” the woman whispered as she closed the door.

  Now in utter darkness, Quinn could only hear the activity when the door opened and a man, an Englishman, entered. His Portuguese was rough and interspersed with English, but she couldn’t make anything out for sure.

  He was clearly one of Drake’s men and had come to find pleasure in the arms of this serving wench... whore? She didn’t know.

  The first sound that chilled her blood sounded like a slap. This was immediately followed by a small whimper that made Quinn lay her hand on the hilt of her short sword.

  “All I been thinkin’ ’bout near these last few days has been driving my cock through ya, ya pretty little thing.”

  Quinn tried to calm herself as the grunting and whimpering coalesced into an image she could not block out.

  “Quit yer whinin’ and spread those legs a’ yers.”

  Quinn might have been able to stay her hand had the slapping sound not followed his words.

  But it did, and before she could stop herself, before she could reign in her emotion
s, she leapt from the armoire, withdrew her short sword and plunged it deeply between his shoulder blades.

  The sailor, who’d still been standing, dropped to his knees, blood bubbling from his surprised mouth.

  “In yer next life, ya bloody bastard, learn how ta treat a woman like a lady.” Quinn put her boot on his back and shoved him away as she withdrew the sword.

  “No... ” came the wench’s plea, her eyes filled with fear.

  Quinn knew there wasn’t much time. She had to get the body out of here, or the girl would take the blame. Opening the door a crack, Quinn saw several people laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Closing the door, she motioned to the wench to help get him into the armoire. After struggling with his dead weight for a minute, they managed to secure him inside.

  “I must go,” Quinn said when she could hear no more laughter from the atrium.

  The wench’s eyes were filled with a combination of fear and gratitude.

  “I’ll be back,” Quinn said, laying her palms on the young girl’s face. “Do not be afraid.” She hoped her voice was soothing enough to convey her meaning, as she opened the door, looked both ways, and quickly exited without being seen.

  As Quinn made her way through the darkening evening, she felt surrounded by the loud voices of the English sailors. They were everywhere but were particularly rowdy down at the dock, where a crowd surrounded two men, chanting at them to fight.

  “Fight!”

  “Fight!”

  “Come on, ya pansy-ass Celt! Hit ’im!”

  Quinn felt the blood drain from her face as she sprinted toward the growing crowd.

  When she was close enough to see, her fears had come to pass. Standing in the middle of the circle were O’Leary and One Eye.

  Thirty steps before she reached the crowd, a thick arm shot out from the darkness of the alley and grabbed her around the waist. She started struggling until she heard his voice.

  “Runnin’ into a fire never got ennaone ennathin’ but burnt. Quit yer strugglin’.”

  Realizing it was Tavish, Quinn settled down.

  “Good. Now calm yerself.”

  “They want––”

  “I know what they want, Callaghan, but what they really want is ta see one man best another. That man has ta be me.”

  “You?”

  “Aye. While I best their best, ya gotta get ready ta get us outta here—and fast.”

  Quinn nodded. “I can do that.”

  “I ken ya can.” Tavish ran his hands through his thick red mane. “By hook or by crook, laddie, we need a plan, or surely Drake’s men will cut us ta pieces. Right now, all they want is a fight. Give ’em another hour, and they’ll want blood.” Tavish stepped into the alley and cracked his knuckles. “Get those horses. We need a fast way out, and these sea dogs willna be sober enough ta chase us through the dark.”

  Quinn nodded. “Do what you need to do, then meet me at the smithy’s. I’ll have two horses ready to go.”

  “Ya do that. Inna meantime, I’m gonna have me a wee bit of a grand time.” Tavish grinned. “Fookin’ English bastards.”

  As Quinn watched Tavish walk toward the crowd, she headed to the blacksmith shop, which was closed for the night. The stall in the back was occupied by three geldings, but Quinn found only two bridles, which she quickly threw on before heaving herself onto the taller of the two animals.

  Walking as close as she dared to the crowd on the street below, she held her breath as Tavish, bare-chested, entered the circle, followed by a giant of a man, also shirtless.

  The man towered over Tavish by nearly a foot.

  “One punch,” the fight organizer admonished. “One punch, and we let yer friends go.”

  The crowd roared with delight.

  “That’s correct; if an Englishman is capable a’ keepin’ at his word, one punch and we walk away,” Tavish said.

  Several of the sailors pulled their swords but the organizer held his hands up. “Easy does it, men. If this Scot truly believes he can knock out Ivan with one punch, the poor arse is soft in the head right fellas?”

  The crowd cheered and jeered.

  “One punch and yer men go free. More than that, and ya will be nothin’ but a blood stain when it’s all over.”

  Quinn could not believe the massive size of the man called Ivan. He had arms like cross beams, chest the width of a table, and a neck that disappeared into his shoulders.

  “Oh, Tavish,” she said softly. A man the size of Ivan could be hit by a felled oak and still remain standing.

  Glancing around, Quinn knew she needed to formulate a plan to get them to safety, or these Englishmen would kill all three men just for the sport of it.

  Three men.

  Men.

  That was when the idea leapt fully formed into her head. It was the only play she had to distract them from their feeding frenzy.

  As she started for the nearest brothel, she couldn’t take her eyes off Tavish, who was circling Ivan with his fists up to his face. Both men were sizing each other up as they maneuvered around one another.

  Fast as she could, Quinn ran into the brothel and yelled first in English then in Latin, “Does ennaone here speak English or Latin?”

  An older woman, not the madame, tilted her head. “I speak Latin,” she said with a lilt in her voice.

  Quinn heaved a sigh and quickly explained what she needed from the woman.

  For her part, the woman was at first amused, then smitten, and when Quinn left five minutes and three pieces of silver later, she could only hope Ivan had not killed Tavish.

  ***

  By the time she reached the crowd again, the dock was preternaturally silent. On the ground, eyes closed, blood flowing from his nose and mouth, was none other than Ivan. The crowd held its collective breath. Ivan did not move.

  Neither did Quinn.

  The air was thick with anticipation. Ivan looked dead.

  Now was her best chance, while the crowd was too stunned that Tavish had, indeed, knocked Ivan out with one punch. She would have to make her move before the crowd turned on Tavish.

  She’d seen it before.

  Crowds were iffy that way––one moment behind you, the next, they’d turn on you without a moment’s hesitation. She knew the English would not keep their word. Why would they? They were English, after all.

  Walking up to the crowd, she found a slight incline, stood upon it and cleared her throat.

  “What is the meaning of such barbarism?” Quinn demanded in her most regal English tone.

  As if one mind, the crowd turned toward her. What they saw was exactly what she made it appear.

  Dressed in a noble woman’s gown, complete with jewelry and a long-haired wig, stood Quinn. “I asked, what is the meaning of this barbarism?” she repeated as she strode through a crowd that parted as she neared.

  “Who the hell are ya?” one of the English pirates asked.

  Quinn strode right up to the speaker and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “I. Am. A. Guest. Here,” she enunciated slowly, yet loudly. “We are the lady’s guests, and I am quite certain she will not be pleased by this outlandish and inhospitable treatment of her guests.” Quinn looked over to Tavish, who offered her a bland affect. If he knew it was her, he did not give any indication.

  “I... uh... we’re sorry, madam. We... I... meant no harm,” one of the pirates said.

  “No? Is that why your... giant... is an unmoving mound of flesh, bleeding from a severely broken face?”

  “He just... we––”

  Quinn turned on her heel and snapped at the three Celts. “Well? Move along. What are you gawking at? Come along before these barbarians continue with their ridiculous form of entertainment.”

  O’Leary’s eyebrows rose, and One Eye’s eye appeared confused. Only Tavish held Quinn’s eyes knowingly, as if he had been in on it from the start.

  “Come on,” Tavish grumbled, shoving One Eye forward through the crowd. “It’s now or n
ever, lads.” Once they were through it, Quinn ushered them through the village until they could duck into the brothel. She could not travel in such attire and she certainly could not fight.

  “What the bloody hell is goin’ on?” One Eye asked when Quinn went behind the dressing shade with the older woman who helped her out of the wig, dress, and jewelry. One Eye frowned. “Callaghan? That was ya?”

  “Aye. Look, no time ta explain. We have ta get going right now.” Turning to the woman, Quinn said in Latin, “I hope the money is sufficient ta cover the loan of yer precious garments.”

  The woman nodded, bowed, and said goodbye, after which Quinn hurriedly escorted her men out of the brothel and on the road towards the horses. “Step it up, men.”

  “Ya... that was brilliant!” O’Leary said. “But... why a woman?”

  Tavish shook his head and muttered something in Scottish under his breath. “Not important. Callaghan is right. We gotta get goin’. Once those drunkards figure it out––”

  “Horses?” One Eye said, slowing down. “No, no, no.”

  O’Leary prodded him forward. “No choice,” he said. “Get on up.”

  When all four were mounted up, Quinn pointed them down the only road leading from town, but before they could leave the dock area, someone blocked their way.

  “Which of you killed my first mate?” the angry voice demanded.

  Quinn recognized that English voice instantly.

  Drake.

  The three O’Malley crewmembers looked at each other before withdrawing their swords.

  Drake and his handful of men blocked the road. Two of the men held muskets on them. “Off the horses. Draw and you’re dead men.”

  Quinn and the others slid off their horses and Drake and his men pressed forward, moving them back to the dock.

  “What makes ya think enna of us killed him?” Quinn asked, stepping in front of her men to stop the progress of moving backwards.

  “Stabbed clean through the back. The lovely Portuguese people have never harmed us, but since you’ve arrived, one of my men is dead and one is still quite unconscious.”

  “Well, it was not us, so step aside before ya end up like yer first mate.”

  “No? You also stole those horses, you crushed in the face of a man, and you killed another man from behind, so it appears you lack any moral fiber. Who is your captain?”