“That’s enough, Delacorte,” Bryce growled.
O’Malley cupped her face in his hand, drying her tears with his thumbs, his throat working. He glanced past her shoulder, then pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. “Remember what I said,” he murmured, pulling out the belaying pin he yet carried in the folds of his robes. He smiled like an avenging angel, and hell broke loose behind her. O’Malley’s crew descended like a Mongol horde with cutlasses drawn. Steel clashed against steel. She turned in time to see Bryce pull the trigger on one of the pistols pointed at them. It misfired, and he flung it away in disgust. Leveling the other barrel, he fired at the same time O’Malley pushed her away. As she stumbled clear, the first two sailors threw themselves at her father. O’Malley twisted like the pugilist he’d once been, dodging one opponent and landing the pin smack in the stomach of the other, robbing his breath and sending him to his knees.
Bryce stood, gripped in rising fury, his face a mottled mask of disbelief at the sight of O’Malley’s crew members. They rushed forward in overwhelming numbers, wielding their blades and dispatching Bryce’s men with swift efficiency.
Determined not to lose all that he’d worked for, Bryce picked up a sword from one of the fallen and slashed at the back of the sailor nearest him, a glancing coward’s blow. His failure to do serious damage infuriated him, and he set his face, determined to take out O’Malley.
Christiana saw his intentions and cried out a warning to her father. Jimmy heard her call O’Malley’s name and pivoted on his heel, throwing himself to engage Bryce’s blade. Off balance, he slipped on the bloodied ground, barely avoiding Bryce’s downward slash, receiving a long, deep gash instead of the savage cut that would have severed his arm. The two men thrust and parried, locked in mortal combat, until Jimmy’s blade broke. Bryce smiled and moved in for the killing blow. Jimmy turned aside at the last moment, and Bryce sliced empty air. The momentum carried Bryce forward, onto the broken shard of Jimmy’s blade. Bryce fell to his knees in slow motion, the sword hilt protruding from his chest, his life’s blood pouring onto Jamaican soil.
With resistance eliminated, they regrouped and hastened for the boat, ears strained for the sounds of a pursuit that blessedly never came. Two of the tars caught O’Malley when his legs buckled, and Christiana wished she’d whacked Lewis Simon harder. She was grateful that O’Malley was out of prison, and the author of the deed that put him there was dead, but there was still danger. They needed to reach the ship, clear the harbor, and gain the open sea—
And get word to Vallé, she reminded herself grimly, although no one had yet spotted the Principia. When they did, she would have to choose: whether to stay with her father, or face her lover, not knowing what he would do, how he would respond, when he learned that his brother was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In direct violation of the ship’s rules, Comfort struck flint against steel and managed to light a single taper. The action made her bairn stretch, a lazy push that rolled from her navel down. She’d not felt much movement today, and welcomed the affirmation that all was well within, at least. She feared far worse outside.
Flaring to life, the flame succeeded in chasing back the darkness but did nothing to silence the whispers echoing in her head. Although, like her mother before her, she possessed the Gift of Second Sight, she’d unfortunately been shorted the Gift of Discernment. Too often, she didn’t understand what she was shown. All she had to do was feel the life inside her and be reminded of her limitations.
She was not infallible. ‘Twas rare that she could read herself and was, at times, blocked from learning what she wished to know when reading for others. Here, in the candlelit captain’s cabin, she could only think that it was the dead of night and she’d sent souls out into it. Pray God that each would make it back whole, that none of them suffered loss of life or limb because of her.
Shivering, she wrapped a borrowed length of cloth around her shoulders and nestled into a corner chair. The cabin was far more spacious than the quarters she’d been using—and much less unsettling, having none of the lieutenant-at-arm’s personal articles around for her to accidentally touch, or the pillow where he laid his head, that held his memories and dreams. The captain’s cabin did have one disturbing item, however, that she’d discovered quite by accident. While the images issued from its handling were far from pleasant, she thanked God she’d found it sooner rather than later, else she might not have sent help in time.
She’d recognized it, touched it, and was nearly knocked to her knees by a vision of Christiana and her father, trapped in a net. She’d wasted no time in sharing her “suspicions” with Mick McGuire and James Kinkaid. Convincing them had been a wee bit tricky, but she hadn’t faltered in her insistence that Christiana needed help. In the end, every spare man had been sent ashore, split into two groups, one led by Kinkaid, the other by McGuire. Their mission: to aid their captain’s escape at the peril of their own lives.
She had watched them go, clinging to her one consolation, that she’d sensed no death for O’Malley’s crew—though there was no way to be certain, not when she’d interpreted visions wrongly before. Now she could only pray and wait until all were here and accounted for.
Telling herself she’d done all she could, Comfort tilted her head and strained her ears, hearing the gentle wash of the waves against the ship, the creak of its wooden hull, the soft murmur of conversation above deck, listening for the others to return.
Another half hour passed. Unable to sit still any longer, Comfort paced the width of the floor, freezing like a statue when she heard noises on the deck above. Booted feet hurried down the companionway, and the door to the captain’s cabin flew open, banging on its hinges.
Captain Vallé burst into the room, his blood beating fierce in his breast, nameless terror clawing at his soul. Eyes wild, he slashed his gaze from left to right, espying only Comfort.
“She is nae here.”
Justin blew out a blistering curse. Consumed by the need to vent his frustrations, he gritted his teeth and shoved a hand into his hair. He clenched his fists, feeling the desperate urge to hit something—or spank someone—whatever it took to keep Christiana from doing something so foolish again.
“My father?” Comfort asked, softly intruding on his thoughts. “Is he aboard?”
Justin shook his head, thankful that his surgeon’s daughter seemed no worse for her adventure. “He sails aboard the Principia. We are to rendezvous with the rest of my fleet near Navaza.” The island was close enough to the French side of Hispaniola to offer an extra measure of safety, in the event of British pursuit. “You are well?”
“I fear I’ve worn out my welcome wie some—not yer lady,” she hastened to add. “My stomach’s been a wee bit rebellious, and I’ve had two false starts since we left Valhalla.”
Comfort paused, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, and shifted her gaze to the bank of mullioned windows that lined the stern. “The ship is yours?” she asked him, almost too casually.
“Oui.” Justin followed the line of her gaze, mentally retracing the path they’d rowed from their anchorage to the Bold Avenger. He’d left Rafe with only a skeleton crew and taken every available man, not knowing what opposition they might meet here, or if a rescue would be required. “O’Malley’s men offered no resistance once they saw our numbers.”
“Christiana’s orders. They were to let you have the ship, should you come,” she told him. “Dinnae be too hard on the lass, captain. She only wished tae protect ye.”
“Protect me.” Justin’s mouth tightened grimly. “And who’ll protect her,” he grated, “now that she’s gone for O’Malley?”
“The rest of O’Malley’s men. They set out near an hour ago, fearful of a trap.” Comfort shifted her gaze to the table and pointed to the silver tankard that rested on its top. “Seeing that, I feared the same, and sent them after her.”
Justin recognized the tankard as one that he’d given his brother, a custom ste
rling piece that Bryce had sworn he’d lost at sea, dropped overboard while sharing a round above deck.
“Lost, but not at sea. At cards,” Comfort told him, uncannily discerning his thoughts. “Just one o’ the many lies yer brother spun, until he had enough of a web tae catch a mon—Christiana’s father—in hopes of catching ye, I am afraid.” She’d known his sinister plans the moment she’d touched his tankard, as if it had heard his plotting and carried the memory of it. “But…he has failed,” she said softly, “and I must offer my aid to the ship’s surgeon. Listen. They come.”
Justin cocked his head, ears strained to catch the sounds of hushed greetings, the soft cries of surprise, the muffled groans of the wounded.
Comfort brushed past him. “If ye’ll excuse me, Captain.” She paused with her hand on the latch, and locked her steadfast gaze with his. “‘Tis true that things hae happened ye do nae like,” she said, “but remember that patience is a virtue well-rewarded. Keep yers but a wee bit longer, and ye’ll be glad for it later.”
Boot heels clicking, Justin shrugged off Comfort’s cryptic words, more concerned with escaping Jamaican waters than with deciphering another one of her riddles. Wounded tars mean wounded militia, soldiers, guards—whomever they’d encountered, and the authorities wouldn’t wait until morning to order a search.
They had to leave. Now.
Keeping his eyes peeled for Christiana, he scanned the moon-shadowed deck, taking satisfaction in the way his men directed the handling of the incoming wounded while remaining in control of the ship. Christiana’s orders, he supposed. The second wave of O’Malley’s crew hit the deck, these without a scratch, such as he could tell, and ready to take back their ship if someone but gave the word.
No sooner than he’d thought it, the inevitable happened. Push came to shove, and a fist connected with a jaw. “Here now!” came a distinctly feminine hiss. “Belay that!”
Christiana’s chastisement suppressed the rebellion as quickly as it had begun. Justin launched himself in her direction, pushing through the knot of sailors to clamp his hand on her upper arm. She was dressed in breeches and a loose shirt that masked her curves. With her shorn locks, she could have passed for a boy, but he had no trouble recognizing his sea nymph. Spinning her around to face him, he thrust a hand into her hair and pulled her against him, claiming her mouth in a kiss that lasted until she melted against him, until the apprehension and uncertainty he’d glimpsed in her eyes was dispelled, replaced by sweet relief.
“Never leave me like that again,” Vallé ordered roughly, the warmth in his eyes as welcome as a blazing hearth on a cold winter’s night. “Mon Dieu, when they told me you were gone—”
“I am sorry. Truly.” And so grateful that her actions had not turned him against her. His past hurts made him wary, mistrustful of all women, but judging from his welcome, he understood the distinction between a faithless woman’s betrayal and the sacrifice she’d made for love alone. And if he had not fully put aside his fears and learned to trust again, well, that he was here was enough for now.
Vallé kissed her again. “I went crazy,” he whispered against her lips. “I worried and prayed, asked heaven what I’d done, swearing anything to avoid a mischance. If I’d lost you—”
“I’m here.” Her gaze found his, and she raised a hand to his cheek, where she’d marked him as hers all those years ago. “And here is where I shall stay, from this day forward, if you so wish it.”
Vallé smiled and said, “I do.”
Christiana smiled at him through her tears. If he only knew how she had dreamed of him, saying those words!
“If I could have but one wish,” she whispered, placing a hand over his heart, “I would ask for nothing more than this: to be your home, on land or sea, to fill your house with children and laughter, to be forever yours, however you will have me, whether as lover or wife….”
Justin brushed a kiss across her lips. Pulling back, she looked into his eyes, mirrors of his soul, and confessed, “To be my pirate’s lady, your lady, has ever been the dearest desire of my heart.”
“Then stay,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, “and I swear I shall provide for you in all ways, and do my best to bring you joy as well.”
The priest, overhearing their exchange, stepped closer and raised a hand. “Are you certain?” he asked Christiana. “This is what you want, to be with him? If he asked you to marry, would you say yes?”
Christiana looked from the priest to him. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, meeting Justin’s gaze and smiling softly. “If he but says the word, I am his.”
“Well?” the priest asked Justin. “What say you? Is it your wish as well, to have her, to hold her, to keep her safe and provide for her until death parts you one from the other?”
Justin’s mouth curved upward, his pirate’s smile deepening the scar. “Aye,” he admitted, stroking the softness of her cheek with the backs of his callused fingers, “if she is willing.”
The priest chuckled. “That’s it, then. Never did a marriage aboard ship. Until now,” he added. “Congratulations.”
Panic swept across Christiana’s face. “Father! Don’t tease! You know that’s not—“
“Not what?” The priest turned to Justin and pulled back his cowl. Ian looked the worse for wear, but his green eyes were near to dancing. In a heartbeat, his mood changed from humorous to serious. “If not that, what is it, then? I’m captain of this ship. Right, Justin?”
The fox. Still as sly as ever. If Justin claimed command, Ian had no authority to register a marriage. With a single word, he could undo what had been done.
Looking at Christiana, there was only one answer he could give.
“Oui,” he said, and bent his head to kiss his bride.
Christiana melted against him, and the spark between them seemed to shock her father, who cleared his throat uncomfortably.
Justin reluctantly raised his head. He hoped to one day have a daughter, and could only imagine how Ian felt.
Ian nodded. “Consider it logged, then. Of course,” he said slowly, “we are in British waters. And I am reminded that, aboard this ship, I sail under the name of Ian O’Manion. If you want this”—he motioned between the two of them—“legal off ship, you’ll need to post bans and find a priest.”
Justin straightened, but kept Christiana in the circle of his arms. “Oui,” he said. “Consider it done.”
Ian turned to his daughter. “If I’d the authority to do it, I would. It seems to me, you both want it.” He turned to Justin. “Not that you deserve her,” Ian added, cocking his head in a manner he’d seen any number of times before. “But, for whatever reason, she loves you, and there’s nothing I can do about it except let her have her way. I would suggest you do the same.”
“I believe I will. And thank you for this. For her.”
Justin reached past Christiana, intending to shake her father’s hand. When Ian did not raise it, Justin realized that the fingers he kept pressed against his side had darkness seeping between them.
O’Malley smiled crookedly. “‘Tis naught but a scratch, lass,” he claimed, brushing off Christiana’s alarm. But the eyes he turned to Justin revealed the urgency of the situation. “I’ll go to my cabin now. If you would but send for the surgeon, tell him to find me there. And, son, I leave the details of getting us out of here to you.”
“Vallé?” Christiana asked, looking to him for instructions.
Justin stroked her hair. “Find the surgeon. Take him to your father. I’ll join you when I can, ma belle. We must be away, and the men need orders.”
“Tristan!” Justin called sharply, grateful when the man he’d recently appointed commander of the Yseult was close at hand. “We weigh anchor as soon as we’ve enough men in place to tow us.” With other ships in the harbor, pulled by their own power was the only way to begin to leave, maneuvering clear, then setting the sails. “The Yseult will need oars manned as well. Assemble all able bodies. After we divide the
crews, you’ll be returning to the Yseult. And Tristan,” he added, “order Rafe into a boat. Rowing should give that hot Spanish blood time to cool when he hears that he was right. It was a trap, after all.”
Justin’s mouth turned down grimly when he considered how close he’d come to losing Christiana. He had promised her that he would rescue her father or die trying. Now he must find a way, and try to save them all.
The two ships had cleared the harbor and were threading through the shoals when the clang of alarm bells rolled over the waters. Spreading as much canvas as they dared, they ran the gauntlet of the South Channel before angling northeast toward Navaza.
Only when the first blush of dawn revealed no other ships in sight did Justin relinquish control of the helm to O’Malley’s lieutenant, Mick McGuire. He found Christiana in the captain’s cabin with her father, who lay propped in his bed while she fed him broth.
A nearby pan held bloody rags, and the water in the wash basin was tinged with red. Ian’s chest was bruised and bandaged.
Justin did not like the shallowness of his breath.
“I am sorry,” he told Ian and Christiana, “for my brother’s part in this. I’ve heard the reports.” Mick McGuire’s landing party had come away without a single casualty, thanks to a group of escaped prisoners, who had engaged a second party of sailors and kept them occupied. James Kincaid had returned with a number of wounded, Ian and himself being the worst among them. Kincaid had lost a lot of blood, and now wore Comfort’s neat stitches in his arm and on his sleeve.
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 27