Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  Calitain looked from Malcolm to her and back again before a bleak smile settled on his lips. He dropped to his haunches in front of Malcolm. “For your sake, little lord, you’d better hope she is worth every penny and more to Standish.” When he stood he brought Malcolm up with him, holding him by the hair and dragging him kicking and squealing across the room before thrusting him onto the dirty mattress in the farthest corner. “You will sleep there.”

  He turned to the other two and pointed to the same corner. Both men scrambled to sit beside their unfortunate employer.

  “It is lucky for you that I must wait here in any case. My ship will not come for me and my money until tomorrow night, after it is dark. That means you have until tomorrow after dark to get my money. I don’t care how you get it. Standish can bring it, little fairies can bring it, or even the bloody king himself. But if I don’t have it by then, both you”—he pointed at Malcolm—“and her”—he turned to look at Daphne, his eyes like bottomless black wells—“will die. Is that understood?”

  Malcolm nodded, a low whimper coming from his throat while he stared up at his tormentor. “Y-y-yes, it is clear.”

  Satisfied with Malcolm’s response, Calitain grabbed Daphne by the shoulder and propelled her toward a dark doorway. He smiled down at her as his arm snaked around her waist and drew her close.

  “You are lucky, my lady. We have a private chamber in which you will spend the night while we men make plans for your rescue.” He squeezed her hard before leaning down to whisper in her ear. “You’d better hope the little lordling is smarter than he looks,” he hissed before shoving her into the darkness and slamming the door behind her.

  The only light in the room came from the cracks around the ill-fitting door. Daphne stayed put until her eyes adjusted enough that she could see the outlines of the room. There was a bed in one corner and a small cabinet opposite the door, and that was all. She felt her way toward the bed and sat on the edge, trying not to think about who else had used it.

  Gradually, her pulse slowed and her breathing became less ragged. She could hear Calitain and his associate talking, his voice almost loud enough to distinguish the words, but not quite. She listened without moving for perhaps an hour, when the voices stopped. Not long after there was the sound of boots and the slamming of a door.

  Daphne could still hear Calitain’s voice and assumed that it had only been the two hirelings who’d left, probably going to do something with the horses. She remained crouched in silence, listening so hard her entire body ached with the tension. She couldn’t have said how long she sat waiting for something—anything—to happen. But finally she could bear it no longer. Her shoulders and arms screamed from the punishing carriage ride and it was all she could do to remain upright. So she curled up on her side, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging herself. At least the night was warm and she would not be forced to use the moldy-smelling blanket.

  The last sound she heard before giving up the fight against exhaustion was the pounding of hooves.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was full dark when the three men rode into the courtyard at Lessing Hall. The sound of their horses on the cobblestones brought a sleepy lad from the stables. He blinked hard at finding three men, two of them already having dismounted while the third stopped only long enough to toss his heavy saddlebag to the ground before wheeling his mount and galloping off in the direction of town.

  “Give the horses a triple ration of grain—they’ve had a brutal ride. And stay awake—Martín will be back here shortly.” Hugh was already striding toward the entrance as the last words left his mouth, Kemal struggling to keep pace.

  The massive front door opened before Hugh even reached the top step. There was Gates, holding a candlestick and looking normal but for the fact that he was garbed in a rather exotic red silk banyan and embroidered nightcap.

  “My lord.”

  “Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Gates.” Hugh was unable to suppress a smile at the old man’s sartorial elegance.

  “Indeed, my lord. Betsy has gone to ready your chambers. Should you like something brought up to your room?”

  Gratitude suffused Hugh’s tired body at the suggestion and he tossed his dusty hat and gloves onto a table in the entry hall, moving toward the stairs with Gates trailing behind.

  “Enough food for three—no, make that four, and a couple of bottles of claret, something old and dusty from the cellars. Have it sent to the library rather than my chambers. Also send a message to Will Standish, telling him to join me immediately. After you’ve seen to that, you may take yourself off to bed. We shan’t need anything else tonight.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Gates bowed stiffly before heading back down the stairs.

  Hugh turned to Kemal, who was waiting at his side, laboring under the burden of Hugh’s bags, pistols, and enormous Hessian blade.

  “I’ll take that.” Hugh relieved his servant of the sword and whetstone that hung in a small leather pouch off the hilt. “Put the rest in my chambers and join us in the library.”

  Hugh could sharpen the damn thing while he waited for his men. He wouldn’t be good for much else until Martín returned with Delacroix. He entered the library and poured himself a generous brandy, invigorated by the burn that trailed down his throat. He set the half-empty glass aside and untied the leather cord that held his sword in the scabbard. The soft hiss of metal against leather filled the air as he pulled the long sword out of its protective cover. He tossed aside the scabbard and held the blade up to inspect it.

  It glittered sullenly under the light of a dozen or so candles. It was not a graceful weapon, far too heavy and broad to rival the beauty of those irons used in fencing. Nor did it have the exotic grace of the Eastern blades he’d encountered during his time in the Mediterranean.

  No, this sword had been forged for the sole purpose of expeditious killing. In the right hands it was certain death.

  The sword had been a gift from one of the men with whom he’d escaped the sultan’s clutches; a Hessian named Wüstenfalke—the Barbary Falcon.

  Like Hugh and Delacroix, Wüstenfalke had survived the torture instigated by Calitain’s betrayal. The big German was with Hugh from the beginning on the Batavia’s Ghost, fighting beside him during the earliest, and most dangerous, years. It was during a skirmish with Calitain and another corsair ship almost ten years ago that the Hessian fell. The battle had been brief but fierce and the casualties that day were heavy on both sides.

  The stomach wound had not taken Wüstenfalke’s life immediately. Instead, the Hessian had lingered, growing sicker each day, until he’d become so crazed with pain he’d begged Hugh to end his agony, ordering him to do so with his own sword: Kralle, the German word for talon. When Hugh heeded his friend’s last wish, it had been one of the worst days of his life.

  It was not until six months later that Hugh learned Calitain’s failure to recapture the Batavia’s Ghost that fateful day had been the last straw between the corsair captain and his capricious master, Sultan Babba Hassan. Calitain left the sultan’s service and stole a ship in the process, earning the lasting enmity of his former patron. After that, Calitain had kept to the shadows, a wanted man without any allies.

  Since then, Hugh had used the blade in a manner that would have made the Hessian proud. The distinctive weapon, almost a two-handed sword for a smaller man, gained a reputation as fearsome as Hugh’s own. Hugh was not spiritual, but he could not help feeling Wüstenfalke was sometimes beside him when he wielded the sword.

  He wasn’t the only one to believe such a thing. He’d heard the tales men told of him. That he was a Norse berserker reborn, a man who became so blind with rage during battle, he entered a trancelike state. Hugh stared at the weapon in his hand, wondering not for the first time if the barely legible runes beneath the sword’s guard might be Old Norse. He spoke enough German to know they were not of that language.

  In any case, it was a magnificent weapon and contribu
ted much to the lore surrounding One-Eyed Standish. It was good to have a fearsome reputation when you lived among men who respected nothing but fear.

  He took out his whetstone and began to sharpen the already sharp blade, moving his hand in slow, steady strokes. He worked quietly for a time, the only sound the soft rasp of stone against metal.

  His tired mind wandered to Daphne, but he wrenched it back. He could not afford to have his resolve weakened and gnawed at by pointless worry.

  Instead, he fed his always hungry need for vengeance and turned his thoughts to Calitain.

  He was astounded the slaver would dare set foot in Britain—a country he despised virulently. In spite of his French name, Calitain had grown up in London but he’d left at a very early age because of an incident involving the death of a peer. Calitain made no secret of his hatred of the aristocracy. Hugh had heard him claim more than once that he was the bastard get of a lord who’d raped Calitain’s servant mother. Hugh didn’t doubt that. He knew many men of his class saw their servants as nothing more than bed warmers. He’d found the same attitude in America among the men who owned slaves.

  To Hugh’s way of thinking, rape was as bad as murder, and any man who forced himself on another person deserved a public shaming that ended in killing. And Hugh had no qualms about delivering such a punishment.

  He tested his thumb against the edge of the blade he’d just sharpened, pleased at the small cut that resulted from his featherlight touch. He flipped the sword and started on the other side.

  It had been years since he’d last seen Calitain, but he knew the man frequented the West African coastline and made his money running slaves to the Americas. The profit for those willing to traffic in human misery was even greater since the United States had banned the importation of slaves several years earlier.

  A light knock on the door interrupted his musings and Will entered, his hair sticking out in all directions and his face creased with sleep.

  “I came as fast as I could, my lord.”

  Hugh put aside his whetstone and sheathed his sword while the other man stared at the massive weapon, suddenly alert and awake.

  Hugh gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you, my lord.” Curiosity and worry were writ large on his face.

  Hugh poured himself another brandy and sat back. “Martín came to London with some rather important information.”

  “Aye, I saw him ride out.”

  “Martín’s arrival was fortunate, as Hastings has seized Lady Davenport.”

  Will’s pale blue eyes widened and bulged. “Good God! How? When?”

  Before Hugh could answer, the door flew open hard enough to hit the wall. Martín and Delacroix entered, dragging a third man between them. It was clear his two men had already enjoyed some interaction with their captive. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his mouth was leaking blood.

  Hugh got to his feet. “What have we here?”

  Delacroix smiled, the vicious expression sliding over his battered face like oil on water.

  “We found him riding away from Lessing Hall. It seems he’d just deposited this.” Delacroix held up a small square of paper with his free hand. “Evidently he did not want anyone to know he had done so.” He twitched his captive’s arm to elicit a response. “Tell His Majesty why you were in such a hurry to leave his lovely house.”

  Hugh rolled his eyes at Delacroix’s mocking form of address. His crew had been very entertained upon learning One-Eyed Standish was actually an English peer. No doubt it was the source of much hilarity on his ship.

  “I was jest to drop off the note, yer, eh, Yer Majesty,” the man croaked, deeming it prudent to stick with the accepted form of address. Delacroix and Martín exchanged amused looks and Hugh shook his head.

  The pathetic creature coughed and sputtered, bringing up a mouthful of blood and mucus, which he spat on the rug.

  “Damnation,” Hugh yelled, barely moving his foot in time to avoid the gelatinous mass. He glared down at the cowering man. “Do that again and I will remove your head from your neck.”

  The man gaped and Hugh flicked open the note:

  Ramsay,

  We’ve got your wench. If you don’t show up with £50,000 after dark today, at the old cottage below the lighthouse, we’ll kill her or sell her, whichever is best for us. We know you have the money. Don’t come late and don’t try to come early and sneak up on us, we have people watching you and your house. Do what we say or the consequences are on your head.

  Hugh looked at their captive. “I suppose you were the people who were to watch us?”

  “Aye, Yer Majesty,” the man muttered, staring at the floor. “You have engaged in the kidnapping and attempted ransom of a peer. Do you realize what that means?” Hugh didn’t wait for an answer. “If you help me in this matter, I may decide to be kind. If you are lying to me, I will make the punishments of hanging or transportation seem like tea and crumpets by comparison. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m tellin’ the trufe, Yer Majesty. The man what paid me an’ Jed says I was to deliver the notes and wait. I was to look fer a big bloke wiff only one eye.” He glanced nervously up at Hugh as he said this. “If you left, I was to foller you. When you went to meet up tonight I was to foller and then we’d get paid.”

  “Where is your associate?”

  “He went to London, Yer Majesty, to yer house to deliver the same note jest in case.”

  The man’s simple story had the ring of truth. “Are any others watching the house?”

  “No, Yer Majesty.”

  “How many are at the cottage?”

  “Jes’ the three blokes and the mort.” He contorted his face as he tried to open his swollen eye.

  Hugh gritted his teeth at the other man’s disrespectful mention of Daphne. “Who are the three men?”

  “I dunno. We was in the pay of the littler one, but we never know’d his name. The other two was dressed strange and didn’t talk like they was from here. Frenchies, maybe. The one said he was waitin’ for his ship and would kill the swell and the mort if he didn’t get his money before tomorrow night,” he added, giving up on opening his swollen eye.

  A chill ran down Hugh’s spine at his words. He turned to Will and Martín. “You know where the dungeon is, I presume?”

  The man’s head jerked up at the word dungeon.

  “Aye.” Will’s expression was fierce as he glared down at the kneeling man.

  “Please take our guest there and make sure he is kept safe and secure.”

  “With pleasure.” Will grabbed one arm while Martín grabbed the other, and they marched their prisoner from the room.

  Hugh turned to Delacroix and motioned to the small table laden with cold pies, meat, bread, and cheese. “Eat while you tell me what you found out about Calitain.”

  Delacroix did not hesitate to load up a plate. “We found the Scythe a few hours west, my lord. We’d been looking in the wrong places—searching all the smuggler hideouts and coves. Instead she was anchored not far from Plymouth, just as bold as you please. Calitain must have bought himself some bona fides. I left the Ghost just a few miles east with instructions to follow the Scythe if she goes anywhere. We’re only awaiting your orders.” He sank into a chair and commenced to eat.

  Hugh tried not to grasp at the faint spark of hope in his breast. He picked up the glass of brandy and swirled it in restless circles while he considered the situation.

  “The Scythe will have to leave no later than tomorrow afternoon if its crew is to meet Calitain at dark.” Delacroix nodded. “You will be waiting for the Scythe when she moves.”

  Delacroix gave him a smile that did not bode well for the crew of the Golden Scythe. “Aye. It is long past time we finished with this, Captain.”

  There was a gentle knock and Kemal entered. He looked at Hugh and then at Delacroix, his eyebrows raised.

  “My lord?” he asked, the two words spe
aking volumes.

  Hugh felt his lips pull into a grim smile. “I have the beginnings of a rather lovely plan forming in my head.” He poured another brandy and handed it to Kemal, his smile growing the more he thought about the next twenty-four hours. He lifted his glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to concluding our business with Calitain, once and for all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Daphne felt an odd tickling sensation against her lips and brushed her hand across her mouth, drowsily annoyed at the disturbance. A deep chuckle shot arrows of terror down her spine and she bolted upright and encountered the solid body of a man. Two strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the bed. A pair of bottomless eyes bored into hers, only inches away.

  “Now, now, my lady. You needn’t be alarmed,” Calitain said, gently brushing back the tendrils of hair that floated around her face. His eyes pinned her more firmly than his hands. “I won’t hurt you.” He stroked her jaw with the back of his fingers. “I came to see if you wanted to break your fast.” His eyes lingered on her bodice and then he laughed. “Actually, I came to see if you would make us food, but then I recalled you are a fine English lady and do not know how to do such lowly things as feed yourself.”

  He was right; Daphne had never cooked a meal in her life. Like most women of her class, the extent of her culinary skill was the distribution of tea and biscuits.

  “It is no matter,” he said, continuing to study her closely while stroking her hair. “Jean-Paul is not a bad cook. Come.” He grabbed her hand and yanked her up. “You are sleeping away your day. And it might be your last, eh? You must enjoy every minute of it and tell me how it feels. Not everyone is fortunate enough to know when they are living their last day.”

  He took both her hands in his and pulled her close, until her body touched his from chest to thighs. “You see,” he said, smiling down at her, “I am giving you something most people will never have when they die. You will be able to consider what your life has meant before you go to your higher reward.” His gaze was rapturous and Daphne could almost hear his unstable thoughts clattering and clanking around inside his skull.