Heather Graham - [Camerons Saga - North American Woman 02]

by A Pirates Pleasure

  The Hawk’s eyes raked her with a careful disdain. Even there, before all others, the gaze seemed to strip her of her clothing, to lay her bare and naked before them all. A sizzle of mockery touched his eyes. “No woman is worth so much,” he said, “and this one screams like a banshee and lies like a log. The equipment is there, but alas, she lacks the talent to use it.”

  She gasped out loud, despising him, despising the way that he had made her feel. She hated the cold steel in his eyes, and she hated the humiliation he caused her. Snickers of laughter rose up softly at his suggestion of their intimacy. “The point, sir,” Hawk continued, “is that the prize is mine! What is mine, I shall keep!”

  “But if she is of little use—”

  “She will draw a good ransom.”

  “I would pay that ransom.”

  “Neverless, sir, I have begun a certain … er, contact with the lady, and I would continue where I have left off.”

  “You said—”

  “Aye, Blackbeard, but I believe I could train her and tame her, and for the very measures, I would keep her now in my possession until I have chosen to make other arrangements.”

  Blackbeard! Skye shivered, aware then that she was being touched by another of the most notorious pirates in the Caribbean.

  “Perhaps this could be settled with Captain Logan if you were to pay him the ransom,” Blackbeard suggested.

  “I’ll not take money!” Logan cried.

  “And I’ll not buy back what is already mine!” the Hawk claimed.

  Watching him in fury and amazement, Skye suddenly screamed. Logan had wasted little time, but had come up behind him, his sword raised and ready to swing in a wide arc. The Hawk ducked just in time, else the arc would have severed his neck and sent his head flying. The Hawk swirled about, striking out.

  “Logan, you backstabbing refuse!” the Hawk roared.

  “This is a fight!” Logan snarled back. “Not a bloody mincing court of civil law!”

  The Hawk caught Logan’s cutlass with his blade; the sword flew and clattered. The Hawk stepped back, but one of Logan’s men leapt into the fray, charging for the Hawk.

  “The plate!” A heavy-jowled man behind Skye and Blackbeard called out. “Save the plate!”

  Skye quickly understood why. The fight was no longer one-on-one, but a melee. Men leaped about to join in with roars and cheers, and steel was soon clashing about the room.

  “Look at this, at what you have caused!” Blackbeard hissed in her ear. “Alas, the law does not catch men, but mere women send them to their dooms. Perhaps I should let them all battle it out, mam’selle, and spirit you away myself.”

  She did not know if he taunted her or spoke the truth. The room had become terribly warm. Now screams arose, and injured men fell from the fray, crashing upon tables, falling to the floor.

  Blood ran, mingling with the wine upon the sand and dirt.

  Very likely, they would all long to slit her throat when it was over.

  Skye acted on desperate impulse, reaching swiftly for the man’s cutlass and jerking it from his hold. She wagged the sword beneath his nose. “Leave me be, sir, and I will leave you be!” she cried out.

  “Why, a fighting maiden. Girl, give me back that sword!”

  She shook her head. Blackbeard yelled out. “Mr. Clifford! Toss me a sword!”

  A sword flew his way. He grinned at Skye. “Now give me that weapon, girl!”

  She refused and he thrust toward her blade. She parried him with swift skill, but knew that his strength would be great.

  “Blimey!” he cried. “She knows how to use it!”

  Skye wanted no more of the man known as Blackbeard. She counted on her speed to bring her through the crowd of rioting men. At first, no one thought to strike her, only to stop her wild flight. Then, as more and more of the sailors came away from a brief encounter with pricks of blood upon their persons, cries of warning went up.

  Three men came toward her.

  There was a stack of wine barrels by the door. Skye instinctively tossed them over. They cracked and spilled, and it seemed that the earth was soaked with it.

  “Dear God, dear God, I am ruined!” called out the proprietor. A straw-haired harlot in totally disreputable undress shook a fist toward Skye. “You’ve cost us all, girl!”

  Skye ignored her, looking to greater danger. She was backed against a wall then, and more and more men were coming her way. They laughed no more. Their faces were grim.

  “Get behind me!” she heard. White-faced, she dared to look around.

  The Hawk was coming her way, fiercely challenging every man who sought to approach her. She was amazed again at the deftness of his swordplay. He leaped upon a bench and soared forward, taking with him three of her attackers. He spun about and caught one man at the knees, leaving him screaming, slicing a second man through the arm, and catching a third at the throat.

  She nearly missed an opponent, watching him. She came to attention just soon enough and ducked a blow that struck the wall. Hawk was beside her then. His weapon, she saw, had taken a beating. The steel had cracked.

  “Give me the sword!” he commanded her.

  She stared at him, her eyes growing very wide. Did it matter? She had caused this fray. She had brought him to arms against his comrades. He had claimed that she wasn’t worth any fortune in gold, that he would keep her just because he already had her. He was surely furious with her, and might very well plan to torture her near to death once he had his hands upon her.

  She could not give her sword away.

  Men were approaching them quickly.

  “Give me the sword!” he roared once more.

  Of course, if she didn’t hand him the sword, they might very well perish at that very moment.

  He lunged for it. She gasped, but released the steel to his grasp. He stared at her with a promise of fury, then turned to the sailors now ready to assault. He raised the weapon against them, and steel began to clang again.

  He moved forward, maneuvering himself and Skye away from their disadvantaged position against the wall. Skye saw that they were slowly joined by the Hawk’s men. She didn’t know them all, but she suddenly realized that she was being shielded behind the Hawk and Robert Arrowsmith. They were fighting their way to the door.

  Slowly, the attackers began to fall away. Only a few remained when they reached the entryway.

  The Hawk paused, reaching into a pocket within his frockcoat. He drew out a number of gold coins.

  “Mr. Ferguson! For the damage done, sir!” he shouted. Then he said to Robert, “Watch my back, Mr. Arrowsmith!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  And with that, the Hawk grabbed hold of Skye’s arm. He dragged her along the primitive road with him in a raw fury. They were not far from the sea. She could smell the salt and feel the breeze. The Hawk’s men now raced behind them, like a giant wave, seeming to pitch them ever forward. She could still hear shouts of rage and fury from behind them. What had happened to Logan? She didn’t know.

  She stumbled.

  “Move!” the Hawk shouted to her. Grasping his arm, she tried to do so. She apparently did not move fast enough for he swept her up into his arms. She struggled briefly. “I can walk—”

  “By God, I should let them have you!” he thundered out. Caught by moonlight, his eyes glittered with a striking, chilling silver. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and went silent. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was running with her held taut in his arms. “The longboats!” someone cried. “We’re there! All men to the oars, and quickly.”

  Their boots fell heavy against the dock as they raced down to the longboats. Skye was tossed heavily within the first. The Hawk quickly landed by her side. He dropped his borrowed sword while his men crawled in with them and picked up the oars. Reaching to his waist he drew out a long flintlock pistol. Staring at him, Skye had not seen the shirtless man with the knife between his teeth reaching up to her from the water. The pistol flared.
The man cried out, and the knife fell from his teeth as he crashed into the water.

  The Hawk cast her a chilling stare. Her eyes fell upon the sword as the longboat shot away from the dock. Fear made her think to lunge for the sword. His booted foot fell upon her fingers before they could wind around the steel. She cried out and her eyes met his again, and this time the hostility in them ran deep, and far colder than she could have ever imagined.

  “Aye, mistress! I should have left you to them!” he hissed, sinking down beside her.

  Shouts were arising from the dock. The contingent from the tavern had followed them down to the sea.

  “Are they coming, Mr. Arrowsmith?” the Hawk called to his man.

  “I’m not sure, Captain. They seem to be hovering at the moment, sir, and nothing more.”

  The Hawk’s eyes were upon her again. Skye felt them boring into her. She shivered with a dreadful cold. She looked to the shouting rogues upon the dock, and to the man beside her, and then to the water. The dark depths seemed absurdly inviting that evening.

  His hand clamped hard upon hers and she started, meeting his fiery gaze. “No, milady, I think not! I did not haul you from that menacing crowd to lose you to the sea!”

  She sat still and tried not to shiver. His eyes remained upon her. “What happened?” he demanded curtly. “What has come of Jacques DuBray and the men left with you.”

  She started to shake her head, unable to speak. His fingers dug into her damp hair, wrenching her head back. “What happened?”

  “Jacques—the Frenchman is dead.”

  He swore violently, staring at her with a greater hatred. “A good man, and dead, on your behalf, milady! You still have not told me what happened!”

  His hold upon her was fierce. His men, setting their oars upon the sea, also stared at her. In the darkness she could feel their eyes condemning her as the longboat skimmed the water, bringing them ever closer to his ship.

  “Tell me!”

  “Logan came! He came from the shore and snuck up on the ship. The man in the crow’s nest saw him, but Logan shot him before he could cry out an alarm. Then he came topside and shot the Frenchman.”

  The Hawk swore violently. His hand fell from her hair and he looked toward his ship.

  None of the men on the docks seemed to be coming in pursuit, Skye saw. She shivered, feeling very, very cold. The sea breeze seemed to glue her wet clothing to her and the little discomforts made her ever more wretched as she wondered about her fate.

  The figurehead of his ship loomed into view. Skye had never noted it before. It was the proud figure of a woman, one of the Greek goddesses, she imagined. The breasts were bared, and a crown rode the head. Soft carved curls fell over the woman’s shoulders and her face was strong and beautiful.

  It was a fine and artistic piece of work, Skye thought. Of course. The ship had surely been seized.

  Her teeth were chattering. Her mind was wandering to all sorts of avenues, because she was afraid.

  The longboat came shipside. The ladder awaited them, hanging there in the darkness of the night.

  “I shall go first,” the Hawk told his men. He rose, clutching the rope, shimmying quickly upon it. He paused, pulling a knife from inside his boot, looking to Robert. “Mr. Arrowsmith, see to Lady Kinsdale.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Skye sat in silence while the Hawk disappeared over the portside hull of his ship. She heard the water lapping against the longboat and felt the eyes of his men upon her. She had endangered them all.

  I am your prisoner! she wanted to shout out to them. Had you let me be, I’d have offered you no harm!

  But she didn’t open her mouth. She waited in silence, and then she realized that they were all waiting with anxiety, and she, as well as the men, was worrying about the Hawk.

  Worrying about a man who would probably flay every inch of her flesh from her bones …

  “All clear!” he called suddenly from far above them. She nearly screamed, she was so startled. He held a lantern far above his head, and in the night he watched her, his eyes nearly fathomless within the curious shadows of his face.

  “Come along, Lady Kinsdale,” Robert told her gruffly. Numb and frightened, she obeyed, reaching for the ladder. She faltered nearing the top of the rope. The Hawk reached down to her, dragging her over the hull of the ship. She nearly fell. He held her up and pulled her against him.

  The men climbed aboard the ship. The Hawk shoved her toward Robert. “See that she is locked in,” he said briefly. Robert took her arm and started toward the captain’s cabin.

  She turned back, opening her mouth to speak. She didn’t know what she meant to say and words caught in her throat. He was watching her. Watching her by moonlight, his hands upon his hips, his face now in the shadows.

  Then he turned away from her.

  Robert swung open the doors and thrust her into the darkened cabin. He didn’t pause. He slammed the doors and bolted them without a thought.

  The darkness closed around her.

  Skye wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes tightly and sank to the floor. She tried to fight it. With all of her heart she tried to fight the fear that was overwhelming her. She felt as if the walls moved, as if they came around her, as if they would close upon her.

  They wanted to hurt her, she reminded herself. Hawk and all his men were bitter against her for the havoc and death they believed she’d caused. She needed to be still, to be silent, to pray that they would forget her here within the cabin.…

  Logic did her no good. The fear was not a rational fear, it was not something that she could control. The night seemed so black; she could not breathe, she could not see, she could not help the sensations that spilled upon her. Sweat broke out upon her brow and goose bumps rose all over her skin. It was sweeping over her, wave after wave of awful, terrible and primal fear.…

  She wasn’t aware at all of what she did. In total terror she cast back her head and started to scream as if she were encountering the very demons of hell.

  The door burst open. Dimly she was aware of the light. Even more dimly, she was aware of the figure of the man silhouetted there within its glow.

  He moved quickly, coming down upon the ground beside her. She didn’t know how long she had been in the darkness, ensnared within the web of fear. She was aware that he held her, but she shook violently still. He rocked her, but she stared into the night with open eyes. His arms came more tightly around her and he lifted her, holding her close as he strode quickly about the room, lighting the lanterns.

  He sat with her upon the bunk. He whispered to her, and she didn’t hear the words, but the cadence of his voice worked its way into her heart. Slowly, the icy chill left her. She ceased to shiver, and shook only in an occasional spasm. She blinked, and then she was able to close her eyes, and then she leaned against him, sobbing softly.

  His fingers moved over her hair. “It’s all right, it’s all right. I am here,” he whispered.

  Perhaps that was the very moment when things would forever change for her. No matter what was to come between them in the future, whether fear or anger or hatred burned in her heart, she would not be able to forget that moment.

  “What is it?” he murmured. “What is it that you fear more deeply than death?”

  “The darkness,” she said softly.

  “What of the darkness?” he said.

  But that she could not answer, and he did not press her, but sighed. His muscles constricted suddenly as if he would move. Her fingers wound into his shirt. His own closed around them. “I told you that it was all right. That I am here.”

  He eased her fingers from him and stretched her out upon the bed. She bit into her lower lip, letting her lashes shield her eyes. He strode across the room and she heard the clink of glass. A moment later he was back, lifting her head. He teased her lips with the snifter of brandy and she swallowed. He crawled to the back of the bunk, leaning against the paneling and bringing her head dow
n upon his lap. He sipped the brandy himself, then lifted her head once more, and this time she swallowed deeply. The brandy burned throughout her. It warmed her. She gasped and fell back again, her lashes heavy over her eyes.

  He studied her, staring down at the perfect oval beauty of her face and the softness of her skin, ashen then. Even her lips remained pale. He traced them with his finger. Her eyes flew open. Glistening turquoise, they held fever and torment. Her lips trembled slightly. “I am sorry about your Frenchman,” she said softly. “He was kind.”

  “I am sorry, too. He was a good man.”

  “He was a pirate,” she said gravely. “At least, now, he shall not come to hang.”

  “As I shall?” he demanded softly.

  Her lashes fell upon her eyes once more, covering them. “As you shall!” she whispered. But she did not say the words with venom, just with a terrible certainty.

  The Hawk twirled the remaining brandy in its crystal snifter, watching the swirl of amber liquid. He smiled with a certain irony, then sighed and sat back. He needed to be on deck. He did not care to test the reefs by darkness—many a careless captain had lost his vessel and his life upon the deadly coral—and so they needed to keep a sharp guard until morning. Perhaps the trouble was over; perhaps it was not. He would wait until the morning to see if the business deals he’d negotiated with Stoker were still valid. Then he would ride the outgoing afternoon tide and hurry for Bone Cay.

  He did not want to leave her, he realized.

  His fingers fell upon her hair again. It was tousled and still sticky from her bout in the sea. It was still beautiful, still the color of a sunset.

  She did not move beneath his touch. He waited a few moments longer, then eased her down upon a pillow. He rose carefully and walked back over to his desk. He poured out another two fingers of brandy and swiftly swallowed it down.

  He stared at her pensively, then he forced himself to come about and return to his deck, and his command.

  When Skye awoke, daylight was streaming into the cabin. The draperies were drawn far back.

  She rose stiffly. She could feel the dried salt upon her body and her hair.