Charles grinned and scanned the alley, his eyes bobbing and weaving from one shadow to another. “Evening, Hatchet,” he said. “Shall we head inside and order an ale, then? We’ll be more comfortable. My treat, of course.”
“Not tonight, mate.” Hatchet shook his bald head, and the moon glinted off the silver hoop in his ear. In his tight, fawn-colored breeches and with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his brawny muscles could not be overlooked. Tilting his head to one side, then the other, he cracked his neck before stepping in front of Charles, cutting off his path to the tavern.
Butterflies fluttered wildly in Mercy’s belly. This could not be good. Oh, why couldn’t she have arrived five minutes sooner? Then she would already be tucked into her bed. She peered down the alley once more, unable to detect anyone else’s presence. Perhaps she could sneak along the wall and enter the tavern unnoticed while Hatchet’s back was still facing her. Taking a deep breath, she steadied her nerves and stood.
“Best to avoid prying ears for what we have to discuss,” another man suddenly said from the shadows.
Mercy slid back down the wall, her heart skittering to a halt.
The man ducked out of an alcove and seemed to take perverse pleasure in stalking toward his prey. Even at a distance, his towering height and distinctive blue-black tresses stood out. Victor, first mate on The Savior. The ship had arrived in Devil’s Cove harbor over a month earlier, and the rumors regarding its captain and crew spread like an infectious disease, crawling under one’s skin.
After the brawl the sailors had incited only a week earlier within the tavern, Mercy was of a mind to believe the chilling stories of their reign on the high seas. Besides, one need only look to their choice of lodgings to confirm their character. Devil’s Cove Manor was an abandoned mansion on the outskirts of town, shrouded in mystery and reputed to house Josephine, the gatekeeper to Hell. Only men of ill repute would dare to live there.
Taking a calming breath, Mercy prayed silently that she wouldn’t faint. She ought to look away but found that she could not. A disconcerting intensity vibrated off Victor, yet he possessed a devilishly handsome face, despite the slight crook in his nose, or perhaps because of it. It was no doubt earned at the beating of another man’s fist.
Strange fluttering sensations flourished in her breast. She bit her lip. Was this wild attraction or unbridled fear? ’Twas difficult to differentiate. But she was an intelligent woman and knew better than to pine over an unscrupulous man, no matter how handsome he might be.
A heavy gold chain hung around his neck and disappeared below the open collar of his flowing shirt, which was tucked into fitted trousers that hugged his sinewy thighs. Knee-high Hessians encased his calves, the heels of the boots echoing ominously through the alley with each measured step. He melded with the night, dressed entirely in black as he was.
The fine hairs on her neck prickled, and her instincts flared to life, warning her to flee. Whatever business these pirates had with Charles Mitchell was best left between them and their Maker. She glanced at the tavern door, mentally calculating the odds of sneaking inside now without notice. Quite poor, considering the angle at which Charles stood. But with the pirates’ backs to her, it was now or never.
Just as she crept from behind the barrel, Hatchet sidled up behind Charles and clasped his upper arms in an iron grip, both men now facing her. The deadly glimmer in the pirate’s eyes halted Mercy in her tracks, and she crouched lower.
“Tarnation,” she grumbled under her breath while peeking over the top of the barrel.
Charles grunted in shock, before he struggled to break free. His fair skin paled a shade further when Victor grasped a handful of his shirt. “What can I do for you, Victor?”
“Well, you can start by keeping your fucking mouth shut,” he said, slamming one fist and then the other into Charles’s jaw in rapid succession.
The dull thud of bone on bone rippled through Mercy, and she shuddered as blood spewed from Charles’s battered mouth. Well, that had escalated quite quickly. She clasped her hands to her chest, praying for Freya’s guidance. Should she hold her tongue or scream? Would anyone come to her rescue? Not likely, given the boisterous patrons of The Black Serpent. No, best to remain silent. They wouldn’t kill the man in an alley, would they?
“I’ll keep it shut,” Charles said, slumping forward. “Tell me what I’ve said wrong, and I promise not to say another word.”
Good man. Yes, listen close and keep your mouth shut.
Victor sank his hand into Charles’s hair and yanked his head up. “Stop spreading filthy lies about your wife and daughter, you rat bastard.”
Charles snarled, his lip curling in an unsightly manner. “Eveline isn’t my daughter! She’s Deveraux’s bastard.”
Mercy shoved her fist into her mouth. She had met Eveline the day she moved to Devil’s Cove. Her aunt had hoped they would become friends, being of an age with one another. But then Charles Mitchell had sent his daughter to live at the priory under Brother Anselm’s care and renamed her Grace. An odd business, that. Or, perhaps not so odd, considering this bit of news.
Without warning, Victor pummeled Charles in the stomach with so much force that the man doubled over and vomited with great, heaving gulps. The second he recovered, Hatchet held him up for another round of beatings from Victor’s effectual fists. He was relentless, pounding his victim without mercy until he hung like a rag doll in Hatchet’s firm grip.
Bile threatened to choke her. Despite years of working in her uncle’s tavern, she’d never witnessed a beating as prolonged and vicious.
Victor’s shoulders heaved with every breath, and he shook out his hands before taking a step back to assess the damage. “Not another goddamned word, Charles,” he said, motioning for Hatchet to hold up the man’s lolling head. “The next time I catch wind of your rantings, you’re a dead man.”
Mercy gasped then sank to her haunches. Stupid mistake! Blood rushed into her ears, and her heart thundered with each passing second. Had they heard her over Charles’s groans and feverish pleas for mercy?
“Drag the bloody blighter home, Hatchet, and leave him on the doorstep.”
She closed her eyes and rocked softly, tapping her head against her knees as she counted to twenty. Please go away. Taking one final, deep breath, she opened her eyes—and screamed.
Victor pressed his hand against her mouth, muffling her cries as he hauled her to her feet and backed her against the wall, covering her body with his. She stiffened, unable to move a single inch. His touch was firm but exerting only the requisite pressure to ensure her compliance. Pressing his lips into a grim line, he regarded her with his emerald eyes.
The hue was unusual, so calm, almost beckoning her to lay down her defenses. Oh, dear, she shouldn’t gaze into his eyes. But he held her head in place, so she glanced down instead and was met with a view of his cracked and bloodied knuckles.
Her stomach lurched, and she struggled to break free from his hold, using every ounce of strength she possessed.
“Calm down before you attract every bloody man in the tavern,” he said, his gaze steely. “I won’t hurt you. Do you hear me?”
She nodded vigorously while tears stung her eyes. What would he do to a nosey young lady who’d witnessed his ruthless deeds?
“I’m going to remove my hand so you can answer my questions. No more screaming. Or I’ll be forced to cover your mouth with mine.”
His mouth on mine? Better than his bloodied hand, but no, feeling his lips pressed against hers would not be good. Well, it would certainly feel good, but it would not be good. Because he would wish for more. And more, until . . . Questions? The pirate wanted to ask her questions? She nodded again.
His brow furrowed. “How much did you see or hear?”
What did he expect her to say? Every single blow of his lethal fists upon a man half his size. Secrets capable of destroying Eveline’s already tenuous reputation. Threats against his victim’s life. Her tongue st
uck to the roof of her mouth, and she swallowed hard before finding her voice.
“Nothing,” she whispered, avoiding his piercing gaze. “I didn’t hear or see anything, I tell you.”
He chuckled, drawing her gaze back to him. A wisp of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he studied her face, and a blush heated her cheeks. She was a horrible liar.
“Good girl,” he crooned, rubbing the soft pad of his thumb absently over her cheek. “I believe you. What’s your name, lass?”
She breathed for what felt like the first time in five minutes and inhaled a rich mixture of sandalwood and his perspiration. His eyes burned with desire as they dropped to her mouth, lingering there for a few heart-stopping moments before he met her gaze again.
Her belly quaked under his possessive stare. Goodness, he wanted to kiss her with those full, supple lips . . . and a small part of her longed for his kiss, to feel the warmth of his mouth. ’Twas useless to deny her physical attraction to the man. But succumbing to his charms would be foolish. He would only offer a taste of passion, bringing her ruin and shame. Yet, she couldn’t fight him off if he wanted to take her innocence in the dark alley, so why did he not ravish her?
Instead, he traced his thumb along her jaw until his hand threaded into her hair at the nape, holding her prisoner to his steady gaze. “You tremble in my embrace. I would never hurt a woman or force her into submission. Do you believe me?”
She nodded, though, in truth, her instincts warned her otherwise. He had brutally beaten another man only minutes before. And he was first mate on The Savior to the Devil himself, a renowned pirate. She didn’t wish to reveal her name to him. Best that he forget her.
“Come, tell me your name, sweet lass.”
The back door of the tavern flew open, and Henry barreled outside. “Are you out here, girl? Show yourself this instant.”
Equal parts relief and panic roiled in her gut. Her uncle had broken the spell Victor had weaved over them, yet she feared for Henry’s life should he find her wrapped in the pirate’s embrace—because he would feel honor-bound to defend her virtue.
Victor leaned closer, blocking her from her uncle’s line of sight. His heart thumped against her chest, its rhythmic cadence intoxicating in the otherwise still night. She held her breath, shocked by the heat of his cheek against hers.
“I’m going to toss you over my knee and tan your hide,” Henry called out. “Do you hear, girl? The alley is no fittin’ place for young ladies. Show yourself now, and I’ll go easy on you. I know you’re out here. Bruno saw you slip out the back door earlier.”
Victor cursed under his breath, and then pushed her toward her uncle as he blended into the dark alley, his footfalls barely a whisper on the wind. She glanced over her shoulder, seeking a glimpse of his receding form. But he was gone. Picking up her skirt, she charged out of the dark alcove.
“There you are,” her uncle said, wrapping her in his tight embrace. He rested his chin on her head for a moment before ushering her through the tavern door. “I swear, you’ll be the death of me.”
She swallowed back the trickle of fear burgeoning in her chest. Somehow, she’d cheated fate.
Chapter Three
Perspiration beaded on Victor’s brow, his body still overheated from beating Charles Mitchell to a bloody pulp. He wiped the sweat away and winced as the salty droplets seeped into the open cuts on the backs of his fingers.
He would not soon forget the horror in the lass’s eyes when she’d noticed the cuts. Perhaps the lady was right to fear him, because he held no remorse for his victim. The good-for-nothing cur had earned every fucking blow.
Thrusting the encounter from his mind, Victor patted his horse’s neck and turned his attention to the road ahead. George’s hooves clomped against the cobbled main street, blending in with the passing carriages and general noise found on any thoroughfare in a town center. Three men staggered down the sidewalk, singing a round of “Go Bring Me a Lass,” their shoulders bumping as they carried on their boisterous rendition.
Oh, to be so carefree. How many nights had Victor squandered sniffing out the one woman capable of reversing the Blackburn curse? Instead, he could’ve been enjoying what little time he had left on earth. God, he would miss his friends, Dominick and Hatchet. They’d stood by him through it all and never given up hope of discovering Mercy’s location.
Why couldn’t he recall the town where Mercy was living? Maude had revealed her daughter’s hiding place, caved to the Butcher’s demands. Still, the name lay cloaked in the depths of Victor’s memory, outside of his grasp. Instead, he remembered Maude’s wail of pain as he stabbed her in the heart, down to the pitch of her voice. And the Butcher’s praise when the nightmare was over; he would never forget that either. Dammit, but he wanted to remember Mercy’s location!
Enough of that.
With a click of his heels, he urged George into a trot. A gallop along the beach would clear his mind. Minutes later, he bent low over his horse’s neck and rode like the wind, laughing as the ocean waves crashed into the shore and warm, salty air filled his lungs.
After a good while, he pulled up on the reins and hopped down to the beach, tugging off his boots and socks. The cool sand squished between his toes, so silky soft. He would miss the fresh sea air and the beach, traveling to far off places, meeting new people.
His toe connected with a solid object, and he bent to retrieve a rock partially buried in the sand. A smile crept over his lips, and he pocketed the treasure. He would add it to his collection of stones, a reminder of every place he’d visited in his lifetime. Perhaps he’d add a clause to his last will and testament, requesting the collection be buried with him in the grave. If he was fated to die young, why not take his memories with him?
George nudged Victor’s arm with his snout. Victor stared into his horse’s eyes and tickled his ears. “I can’t take you with me, handsome boy. And you wouldn’t want to go where I’m destined. Hell is no place for worthy mounts. I wish you could deliver me safely to Valhalla like the Norse warriors of old.”
The horse snorted hard, and Victor grinned. He rubbed his hand down the beast’s mane and began the treacherous walk up the steep, craggy incline that would lead them back to Devil’s Cove Manor. When they reached the stables, he ordered the stable boy to give George fresh hay and water, along with a thorough rubdown.
The walk to the mansion passed in a blur, his long strides eating up the path. It was late when he entered through the front door, and the hallways were dark, for which he was thankful. After a stiff drink in his quarters, he wanted to fall into bed and forget about his troubles.
One of the maids had lit the bedside lamp and turned down the covers on the massive four-poster bed. After depositing his damp shirt on a chair, he reached into his trouser pocket and fished out the rock, tossing it into the wide ceramic bowl on his bedside table. It clattered against the mound of stones, the distinctive reddish slate standing out.
Pulling off his pants, he flopped onto the bed and turned off the light. He didn’t have the energy to pour a drink, so he simply laid back and closed his eyes. Sleep took him almost immediately.
FOG ROLLED OUT OF THE FOREST, CREEPING CLOSER AND CLOSER AS HE WALKED DOWN THE CENTER OF THE DESERTED ROAD. AN EERIE SILENCE SETTLED ALL AROUND HIM WHEN HE PAUSED. THE DENSE COPSE OF TREES REACHED FOR HIM WITH THEIR SPINDLY BRANCHES, AND A CHILL RAN UP HIS SPINE. WHY DID HE HAVE THE FEELING OF BEING HUNTED?
BEST HE HURRY ALONG BEFORE TROUBLE COURTED HIM. HIS BOOTS THUDDED AGAINST THE DIRT PATH, DISTURBING THE QUIET OF THE DARK NIGHT. FORMS MATERIALIZED OUT OF THE FOG, TALL AND BROAD . . . SO MANY MEN STALKING TOWARD HIM . . . CLOSING IN FAST . . . THEIR FACES TAKING ON SHAPE. ALL HIS MIRROR IMAGE BUT HIDEOUS, WITH THEIR THROATS RIPPED OUT.
HAD THEY COME TO DRAG HIM TO HELL? HE SUDDENLY COULDN’T BREATHE. STAGGERING AWAY, HE TURNED TO RUN, BUT THE GHOSTLY FIGURES HAD HIM SURROUNDED. THEY ATTACKED WITH OUTSTRETCHED HANDS. HE FELL TO HIS KNEES AND SCREAMED FOR HELP.
&
nbsp; Victor sat up in bed and heaved a deep breath, gulping for air. His eyes flashed around the room. He couldn’t make out a single thing in the blackness. But he was alone. Blessedly alone. His heart rate settled, and he rubbed his eyes, berating his subconscious. The nightmares were always worse after he doled out a bit of punishment. The Butcher had promised to mold him into a fine pirate someday. And he’d succeeded. Charles Mitchell may have received a brutal beating at Victor’s hands, but Victor did not live under any illusions. His own death would be far worse.
Nightmares attacked with regularity, but this one . . . it was more disturbing than usual. He was better equipped to cope with the nightmares where he plunged a dagger into Maude’s heart. At least those he understood. But these ghostly forms crowding in on him? What did it mean, if not to signify his impending death? Maybe he ought to visit the bookshop in town and buy a guide for dream interpretation.
Oh, bloody Hell. He knew exactly what the nightmares meant. There was no hope of breaking the Blackburn curse without Mercy Limmerick, and after sixteen fruitless years, he was ready to give up. The witch didn’t wish to be found, otherwise she would’ve contacted his family years ago.
Perhaps death at an early age was his rightful punishment for killing her mother and becoming a heartless monster. Yes, it was time to face his future and stop holding on to the dream of ever escaping his fate. No more searching . . . no more worrying. Embrace life, and live carefree.
Chapter Four
Panic fueled Mercy’s steps as she strode down Main Street. How could she have forgotten to buy cinnamon sticks earlier in the day? Her potion would be ruined if she didn’t return soon with the essential ingredient. Pushing through the front door of Clarke’s General Store, she smiled at the kindly attendant behind the main counter.
“Good day, Mr. Hughes,” she said, a bit breathless. “Six cinnamon sticks, please. And I’m in a fair hurry, so I would appreciate it if you would place this on my uncle’s account. I’ll settle with him later.”
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