He patted her hand and turned, but Charlisse wouldn’t let go. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to be trapped, not knowing what was happening. She didn’t want to sink again into the Caribbean waters—or worse, be blasted into tiny bits! Her mouth went dry and her tongue wouldn’t move. She tried to beg him to stay, but no sound passed through her lips.
“I be right back,” Sloane said, prying his hand from hers.
He neglected to lock the door. Charlisse waited two minutes that seemed like two hours before deciding she would rather tempt her fate above deck than in the cabin, trapped like some bird in a cage.
She made her way through the companionway and reached the main deck, immediately spotting Captain Merrick on the foredeck near the bow, feet spread apart, telescope aimed past the stern, intently gazing at something behind them. Sloane stood by his side.
Charlisse crept to the railing to see what they were looking at. A large ship pursued them. A Spanish flag flew from beneath the crucifix at the head of its mainmast. A jet of charred smoke burst from its hull. Seconds later, the thunder of the cannon roared. She froze.
The shot plunged into the ocean not two yards off the starboard side of the Redemption, sending saltwater splashing over the railing. Charlisse jumped back, but the water drenched her. Losing her footing on the slippery wood, she plopped to the deck.
Chuckles erupted all around her.
A strong arm grabbed her by the waist, lifting her to her feet. She looked up to see Merrick’s half-smile. “I thought I told you to stay below.” His stern voice was tainted with humor as he held her tightly against him.
“I can’t stay down there not knowing what’s happening.” She gave him a pleading look. “If I’m to face death, I wish it to find me staring squarely back upon it, not hiding beneath a pillow.”
One strand of his hair had escaped his tie and blew in the wind, tickling her face.
“Well, I can’t have you up here distracting everyone,” he said, still not relinquishing his hold on her. “Including me.” He glanced at Kent, who had climbed up onto the crosstrees for a better look at their adversary. “What say you, Kent?”
“They’re coming straight for us now, full speed,” he yelled. The first mate slid down the backstay, landed on his feet next to them, and gave Charlisse a wink.
Merrick hesitated, then took her by the hand up the foredeck ladder to the foremast. “Hold on to this and stay here,” he ordered before turning his attention back to the galleon.
Sloane returned with a chart and compass. Several minutes passed as the captain studied the maps, periodically glancing at the sun and the compass while bracing his boots on the heaving deck. “Fifteen degrees to port, Master Kent.”
“Fifteen to port,” Kent bellowed across the deck to the helmsman as he headed down the ladder, directing other men to task.
The Redemption flew through the water, all sails full, plunging into the waves and sending spray back over the deck that showered Charlisse’s face and neck. She clung to the mast, struggling to maintain her balance as the wind blasted and ship lunged over each rising swell. A rush of exhilaration sped through her—like she’d never known before. Despite the frightening circumstances, she felt alive for the first time.
She looked at the captain. His brows furrowed over a thoughtful gaze.
“Why do you run?” Charlisse asked. ”Why not fight?” Not that she wanted a battle, but she was curious why a pirate would let such a handsome prize slip through his hands.
“Because, milady, the only way to take down a galleon of Spain is by trickery. They have forty guns to our twelve and double our men.”
“Will they fire on us again?”
“No, we are out of their range. For the time being.”
“But didn’t they already hit us?”
“Just a flesh wound.” Merrick looked up from his chart, folded it, and handed it to Sloane. “Check on Hawthorn and report back to me.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Merrick glanced at the mainsail. His eyes darkened. Two pirates worked on it with cord and needle.
“What if they can’t repair it? Won’t that affect our speed?”
“Possibly.” Merrick’s expression grew troubled as he looked at the galleon racing behind them. “Don’t worry, miss. Freshly careened, the Redemption can easily pull eleven knots—maybe nine or ten without damage. The galleon at top speed can only achieve eight.”
The captain turned into the wind. Charlisse watched his back from where she clung to the foremast. Who was this man? Pirate? Gentleman? Commander? Man of faith? He both confused and intrigued her. And that frightened her the most. He was unpredictable, and unpredictable men were dangerous, untrustworthy.
He stood there undaunted, shirt billowing in the wind, arms crossed over his chest as though he commanded the world—unconcerned that a Spanish war ship pursued him.
He turned suddenly and caught her staring at him. Their eyes locked for an intense second. A hint of a smile formed on his lips.
Sloane jumped up the steps. “Hawthorn be okay, Cap’n,” he announced. “Shot went clean through ’im.”
Merrick nodded and began shouting orders. He commanded his men with efficiency and authority, sending them up and down the shrouds to adjust the sails for maximum wind. Yet despite his efforts, the galleon gained on them.
Charlisse’s heart clenched. Visions of being sunk to the bottom of the Caribbean flooded her thoughts. Or worse yet, of becoming a Spanish prisoner, of enduring the vicious tortures the Spaniards inflicted on those whose religious views differed from their own.
Merrick looked through his telescope once again then lowered the glass and tapped it into his hand.
“Captain, they’re approaching our starboard quarter, bearing their guns, and almost within range.”
Merrick nodded, his gaze resting on the galleon, still a mile astern, but slowly gaining. Nothing in his expression betrayed any fear.
The same could not be said of Master Kent. He cleared his throat. “Any further orders?”
The terror in his voice caused Charlisse to stiffen.
Merrick pointed off the bow of the ship. “Do you see those islands?”
Kent followed the direction of his captain’s hand, and after a few moments, his troubled gaze melted into one of enthusiasm. “Yes, I do.” He paused before adding, “Ah, Captain. I see your plan now, and a … ”
Overhearing part of the conversation and curious to see what Merrick was pointing at, Charlisse released the mast and inched toward the bow. Kent turned and held out his hand to help her, and she allowed him to guide her to the railing. Then shielding her eyes from the sun, she saw the little cluster of islands to which the men were referring.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Well, miss—” Kent began, his voice oozing charm.
“That will be all, Kent,” Merrick interrupted. “Prepare the men to furl top- and mainsails at my command.”
The first mate hesitated. His brown hair blew freely in the breeze from under his black headscarf as eyes, narrow as a hawk’s, roved over her.
“Aye, Captain,” he sneered, without breaking the lock he had on her eyes, before he turned and strode away.
“We are shallow on the draft, milady.” Merrick watched his first mate leave with a troubled look in his eye.
“And what does that mean?”
“It means the Redemption can go much closer to those islands than our Spanish friends can.” His voice held a tone of mischief.
Gripping the railing, she studied the islands. Several minutes passed. She felt his gaze still upon her. He took a step closer, brushing his arm against hers.
“Thank you for allowing me to stay on deck, Captain. I hope I haven’t been too much trouble.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “The only trouble you have caused is the distraction of your presence.” His hand covered hers on the rail. She felt her cheeks redden. Yet, she did not remov
e her hand from the warmth and strength of his. It was more comforting than she cared to admit.
Sloane approached, and Merrick finally released her and began bellowing orders that sent men into the shrouds to lower topsails and topgallants.
“Why are you slowing the ship?” Charlisse asked.
“The islands have cays and reefs surrounding them that must be carefully navigated. I cannot approach at full speed.”
“Won’t the galleon catch up to us then?”
“Let’s pray they do not, milady.” Lifting one brow, he added, “Oh, I forgot, you don’t believe in God.”
When she didn’t reply, he bowed. “I need to take over the helm for a time. Stay here with Sloane. You’ll be safe.” He tipped his hat and left, shouting orders for two of the pirates to man the stern chasers.
She watched him take over the wheel on the quarterdeck and felt suddenly alone. His flatteries both delighted and frightened her, if that were possible. Yet perhaps that was all they were—just vain flatteries, without any meaning.
The Spanish warship swiftly descended on them. Charlisse felt as though the Redemption were a mouse scrambling for a tiny hole while a large cat—with much bigger claws—chased in fast pursuit.
♥♥♥
Merrick tried his best to focus on the delicate navigation before him. Even so, he could not get the woman out of his mind. Her beauty was stunning enough, especially with mist sparkling like diamonds on her skin and hair. But she was so much more than that. He knew she was frightened. Yet she stood on the foredeck, her head high, facing her fate with more tenacity than most men. Most of the ladies he’d known would be cowering below during an impending sea battle, crying on their beds. He admired her strength, but with that came an overwhelming desire to protect her—something he had never felt for any woman before.
The sound of cannon fire jolted him from his thoughts. The Spaniards—no doubt aware of his plan—were making one last attempt to strike the Redemption as the distance between them closed. The shot missed their larboard quarter by just three yards—bathing them with saltwater before plunging to the bottom of the sea.
Captain Merrick immediately answered their fire with the rapid spit of chasers from his stern. If he could just hold them off for a few more minutes, the Redemption would be safe.
Chapter 14: The Challenge
Captain Merrick stood at the main deck railing and squinted at the setting sun. The Redemption gently bobbed in the shallow waters among the cluster of islands, safe for the moment behind the natural barriers of reef and cay.
Sloane handed the telescope back to him. “The galleon’s anchored herself as close to the islands as her keel will take her. But thanks be to God, we be out of her gun range, eh?”
Merrick took a look as well. “Yes indeed.” He lowered the glass. “It appears they hope to wait us out.” He sighed. “I’ve neither mind nor inclination to sit idly by while our food and water—already in short supply—dwindle away.”
Kent joined the two men. The sun dragged its last rays of daylight below the horizon, leaving behind fuzzy images that grew dimmer in the twilight. Soon they would see nothing save what the tiny crescent moon allowed.
“Surely we can escape them in the darkness,” Kent offered.
Merrick shook his head. “It would be suicide to navigate these reefs and cays without light.”
A few pirates gathered behind them.
Sloane shifted his stance. “Then they’ve got us trapped here, eh?”
Growls sounded. Merrick turned around.
“Cap’n’s got us caught like a fish in a net,” exclaimed one of the pirates, glancing over his fellow mates. “Told ye he was as soft as the underbelly of an eel. We shoulda stood our ground and fought them Spanish jackanapes, says I.” He spat on the deck near Merrick’s boots. Grunts of approval followed.
“Har, I be agreein’,” added Royce. He hunched forward, his profile that of a hungry raven eying a promising morsel. “Now all’s we can do is sit an’ wait till we either starve to death or make a run fer it, an’ they pluck us out o’ the water and send us to Spanish dungeons.”
Sloane jumped in front of his captain, hand on the hilt of his cutlass. “Listen to me, ye young jackals,” he growled. “Cap’n’s ne’er done ye wrong so far. He be gettin’ us out o’ this fer sure. Ye all be as squawky as nervous hens.”
Stepping forward, Merrick laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His firm gaze landed on each of the pirates in turn. They were a dangerous and fickle band of men, but he knew how to handle them. The dark figure slithering up on his left was another story.
Kent squirmed past Merrick to stand in front of the pirates, a look of anticipation on his face. “It appears the men have lost faith in you, sir.” He smirked. “Perhaps they’re in need of a better captain.” He glanced over the crowd with cool assurance. “I would have fought the galleon and defeated the Spaniards, not run away like a coward.”
“Aye, aye,” several pirates agreed.
The rambunctious mob continued grunting their approval of Kent’s declaration when Jackson appeared behind them, a head taller than most, and parted the crowd as Moses had the Red Sea. He reached Merrick and turned to face the men. Silence descended upon the mob. The ex-slave rarely spoke, but when he did, everyone stopped to listen.
He crossed his arms and stood firmly. “Cap’n’s done naught to make ye turn on ’im. We’d be at the bottom of the sea right now if Master Kent was the cap’n.” His voice boomed across the deck. “I stand wit’ the cap’n.”
“Cowards come in all sizes.” Kent’s eyes glinted with humor as he glanced across the pirates, who chuckled in response.
“That’ll be quite enough, Master Kent.” Merrick stepped forward. “You men know fair well that only by trickery, deceit, or surprise can a ship our size hope to obtain victory over a galleon. I have proven that to you on more than one occasion.” He looked each of them in the eye with such intensity that some dropped their gazes. “That was not the case today. If any of you scalawags think you could have done better, then egad, you are bigger fools than I gave you credit for.” He glared at his first mate. “I’ll not defend myself to the likes of you, Kent. If you’re up to it, then challenge me fair and square and be done with it. I grow tired of your whining.”
In the long silence that followed, the pirates looked toward Kent.
“As you wish, Captain.” The first mate bowed gracefully and drew his cutlass, a look of grim determination on his face.
♥♥♥
Charlisse had gone below as soon as she knew they were safely within the haven of the islands. After enduring the torturous heat, the struggle to remain upright on the heaving ship, and the excitement of the chase, she was exhausted.
She lay down on the soft feather bed that smelled like Captain Merrick and breathed in the musky scent. A smile came to her lips before she realized it, and she bolted upright, alarmed at the unfamiliar emotions sweeping over her.
Rubbing her fingers where his warm hand had clasped, she remembered the way his nearness brought every cell in her body to life, waking each one as if from a deep, long sleep.
What was happening to her? Was she nothing more than the trollop her uncle had always told her she was? Was she so wanton, so lacking in self-control, that she succumbed to any man graced with looks and charm, regardless of the degradation of his character?
Falling back on the bed, Charlisse’s thoughts drifted to another man: Richard Farrow, son of Winston Farrow, Earl of Rutherford, the only other man—from a past deprived of such acquaintances—who had evoked similar feelings. She had just turned sixteen. Although her uncle had kept her away from most formal occasions, she had convinced him to allow her to attend a ball thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Galchester.
Weeks in advance, she’d chosen her gown: sapphire satin trimmed with cream lace and lined with pearls—the most exquisite garment she had ever seen. On the night of the ball, she pinned up her hair with pearl combs
inlaid with rubies, allowing a few delicate curls to dance about her shoulders. She had never felt more beautiful.
She’d spotted Richard as soon as she entered the ballroom on her uncle’s arm. He was the most handsome, eligible man in London society and heir to the Rutherford fortune. He stood across the candlelit room in a suit of black Flemish silk. She had seen him on several different occasions, and a graceful bow or nod to her each time indicated he had seen her as well. Now, under his eloquent perusal, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
Fortunately, her uncle had been whisked away by a man wishing to speak with him on some important matter, leaving Charlisse uncharacteristically alone.
Richard walked up to her and bowed. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss Bristol. Forgive me for not waiting until we are properly introduced. Richard Farrow, at your service.” He smiled, took her gloved hand, and kissed it gently.
Several young ladies across the room glared at her behind outspread fans.
She curtsied politely. “’Tis a great pleasure to meet you, milord.”
He smiled, flashing exquisite white teeth beneath a black mustache. His eyes were as blue as hers and full of life. His hair, chestnut brown and wavy, was pulled back revealing a strong, handsome face. Not releasing her hand, he placed it in the crook of his elbow and drew her out onto the dance floor, where a minuet was playing. “Wherever does your uncle keep you, Miss Bristol? I must admit, I search for you most ardently at these drab events, but this is the first time in many months I’ve had the pleasure of gazing upon your beauty.”
Charlisse smiled politely, not sure how to answer. “My uncle keeps me under his watchful eye, I’m afraid.”
Richard took her hand and swirled her over the floor as if they were floating on a cloud. Young Lord Farrow was apparently as good at dancing as he was at everything else. “What a pity,” he said. “The very room lights up in your presence.”
For the first time in her life, Charlisse felt cherished—like a princess. Those few minutes with Richard gliding gracefully across the room—the envy of all those around them—were the best moments of her life.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 9