The Pirate Bride

by Y'Barbo, Kathleen;

  “I can,” she said even as his description of her as a child stung. “My mama taught me but said we couldn’t tell my papa because he thought swimming was undignified and beneath our station. Why?”

  “Then if all else fails and you’re faced with being captured or the threat of death, jump overboard. It’s a known fact that most pirates cannot swim, so you’d be safer afloat in the ocean than aboard a sinking ship.” He nudged her shoulder with his, a gesture that reminded her once again of their friendship. “Now off with you, Red. I’ve got work to do.”

  “But what about privateers and Frenchmen?” she called to his retreating back. “Can they swim?”

  “You better hope you don’t find out,” was the last thing William said before he disappeared into a crowd of crewmen.

  Maribel stood there for a full minute, maybe longer, surveying the chaos unfolding around her. Though she was loath to take William’s advice—he was always such a bossy fellow—she did see the wisdom in making herself scarce until the fuss was over.

  Oh but she’d not run to her cabin where she would miss all the excitement. There must be a place where she could stay out of the way and still watch what was happening on deck.

  Pray away the fear.

  She raised up on her tiptoes to look over the men gathered around the cannon. The sails of the approaching vessel were much closer now, their pristine white matching the clouds on the horizon.

  A roar went up among the men of the Venganza, and then the cannon fired. Covering her ears, Maribel ran in search of the nearest shelter and found it behind thick coils of rope and stacked barrels. Only when she had successfully hidden herself inside the coil did she realize she had dropped her prized book. She had to retrieve it; nothing else would do.

  She rose slowly, clutching the ends of Mama’s scarf just as the vessel made a turn to the right. With the tilt of the deck, the book slid out of her reach. Braving the throng of people, she headed toward the book, now lodged against the mainmast.

  Pray away the fear.

  She removed the scarf from her neck and tied it around her head like the pirates whose likenesses filled her books. The ends fluttered in the breeze, and if she thought hard, she could remember Mama wearing this scarf.

  She did that now, thought about Mama. About how she loved to tie the scarf around her waist when she wore her pretty dresses. Someday she would tie this scarf around her waist like Mama did.

  Someday when she was a grown-up lady.

  A cannon sounded from somewhere off in the distance, and then the vessel shuddered. Stifling a scream, Maribel took a deep breath and said a prayer as she grasped the edges of the scarf.

  Smoke rolled toward her as Maribel struggled to remain upright on the sloping boards beneath her feet. She reached the book and then slid one arm around the mainmast to steady herself against the pitching motion.

  Pray away the fear. Pray away the fear. Pray away …

  The cannon roared again. A crack sounded overhead and splinters of wood and fire rained down around her.

  Then the world went dark.

  Captain Jean Beaumont took ownership of the Venganza before any man aboard had given it up. He did so simply by claiming it for the crown and glory of France. From that moment, according to the rights granted him in the Letters of Marque, the issue was not whether but how the Spanish vessel would be turned over to its new owner.

  Predictably, the Spaniards had resisted all efforts to be peacefully overtaken. A pity, for it was obvious these men stood no chance against his well-trained crew. Now they were paying the price.

  All around him his men worked as a team to corral the ship’s crew and passengers and prevent any brave souls from seeking retribution. Those assigned to document and remove all valuable items from the vessel had begun their work as well.

  Of these men, Jean was most proud. It was a badge of honor to be known and feared by reputation but also to be considered fair in his execution of the privileges extended to him as a privateer.

  Each item taken from the vessel would be accounted for, with a list being sent back to the king along with the crown’s portion of the spoils. The remainder would be divided among the crew with Jean forgoing his own share.

  If the crew thought it odd that their captain took no profit from their voyages, none had been brave enough to say so. This voyage, however, was different. He would take his share, but not in the supplies and silver coin that were now being carried across the deck.

  With command of the ship now his to claim, Jean stepped over a fallen Spaniard and kept walking. He sought only one man: Antonio Cordoba.

  His second-in-command, a mountain of a man who had escaped slavery to pledge his allegiance to Jean, stepped in front of him holding a man by the back of his neck. It was Israel Bennett’s job to go straight to the man in control of the vessel and subdue him.

  He did that job well.

  The gentle giant offered no expression as he held his quarry still with seemingly little effort. “Claims he’s the captain, sir.”

  Jean looked down at the pitiful captain, taking note of the terror in his eyes and the spotless uniform. Revulsion rose. There was only one reason a man’s clothing would be spotless on an occasion such as this. The coward had hidden himself and allowed his men to do the fighting for him.

  “See that he understands we have boarded under Letters of Marque on behalf of France and King Louis XV. We wish him and his crew no harm, but we must confiscate what now lawfully is ours.”

  Israel Bennett dutifully repeated the words in flawless Spanish, saying exactly what Jean would have had he wanted the captain to know he spoke the language fluently. Jean nodded when the message had been delivered.

  “I thought he would be older,” was the Spaniard’s muttered response. “It appears the ghost captain has ceased to age. I claim sorcery.”

  Israel chuckled, his laughter deep and resonant. “He is of sufficient age to best you and your ship, and I assure you no sorcery was used.”

  This captain’s response was a common one. Though Jean would soon see his twenty-fifth birthday, he was often mistaken for one of his crew rather than the man in charge.

  Perhaps this was due to the legend that had grown up alongside the reputation of the vessel that had been dubbed the Ghost Ship, not by him but by those who hadn’t seen the ship coming until they were close enough for the cannons to reach them. Or perhaps it was because he felt twice his age most days.

  “One more thing,” Jean added as he looked up at Israel. “Tell him I wish him and his crew no further harm. However, I demand he produce Consul General Antonio Cordoba immediately so that he and I might have a private discussion.”

  The captain’s eyes cut sharply to the left at the sound of the nobleman’s name. Jean recognized this as a telling sign of acknowledgment without the man having spoken a word.

  While Israel repeated the demand in Spanish and clutched tighter with his massive fists, Jean looked over in the direction where the captain had glanced. Under the watchful eye of one of Jean’s crewmen, a dark-haired man in fine clothing knelt at the base of the mainmast. The man’s attention was focused on what appeared to be a puddle of cloth.

  Then he looked up.

  When his eyes met Jean’s, he slowly rose. Every muscle in Jean’s body went on alert, and his eyes never moved from the man across the deck.

  Jean was vaguely aware of a spirited conversation between Israel and the captain, but he kept his attention on the stranger. His last memory of Antonio Cordoba was etched in his mind, although it had been two decades since he had seen the man.

  Two decades since the Spaniard pirate and his murdering crew had accosted an innocent French passenger ship. Two decades since they sent every passenger aboard except for a five-year-old boy to the bottom of the sea.

  Why he had been saved, Jean had long ago stopped asking the Lord. Every day he awoke alive and healthy, he did so with the realization that he had a debt of gratitude to repay.

&
nbsp; What he would do when he found Antonio Cordoba, however, he had long ago decided. Two decades, and now the time had come.

  Everything around him ceased to exist in that moment, leaving only Jean and Cordoba. Jean rested his hand on the grip of the jeweled cutlass he’d chosen for the occasion, the same weapon left behind on the deck of that French ship twenty years ago.

  The cutlass that had been used to cut down his mother and baby brother.

  Jean walked toward the Spanish murderer, stepping over fallen men and stepping around debris that tilted with the list of the ship. All the while, the man Jean knew must be Cordoba merely stood his ground and stared.

  “Antonio Cordoba?” Jean called when he was close enough to make his move.

  “Who is asking?” the Spaniard responded.

  Jean’s heart thudded against his chest, every muscle in his body taut and his nerves on alert. “The only survivor of the sinking of the passenger ship Roi-Soleil.”

  Cordoba’s expression never changed as he lifted one shoulder in an almost disdainful shrug. “The Sun King, eh? No, the name means nothing. Perhaps I have forgotten,” he finally said with a dismissive sweep of his hand.

  Forgotten.

  The murder of his mother and brother.

  Forgotten.

  Jean’s own brush with death and the long journey to be reunited with his father and brother. All of it as meaningless as a sweep of a Spaniard’s jeweled hand.

  Something inside Jean snapped. His tight rein on control slipped even as his fingers held tight to the cold metal of the grip. Something akin to a fog blocked out everything except the motions he wished to take.

  He lifted the cutlass and held it up. The next blood that stained this weapon would belong to Antonio Cordoba.

  Forgotten no more.

  A fist grasped his shoulder and held him in place. Jean attempted to break free but failed.

  “This is not how you want to do this, sir,” Israel said evenly, his deep baritone cutting through to gain Jean’s attention. “Let the Lord handle that man His way. Revenge is His, not yours.”

  This from a man whose entire family had been separated and sold at the whim of others. Who had been beaten and chained and sold into slavery in Africa by kinsmen bent on revenge.

  And yet his words had no effect on Jean. He’d been waiting for this day too long to be dissuaded.

  “It is exactly how I want to do this,” Jean managed as he kept his attention focused on the arrogant expression on the Spaniard’s face.

  “Fair enough. But it is not how this should be done.” Israel released him and then moved to stand between Jean and Cordoba. “If you proceed, then you’ll have to get past me first.”

  Not since the day Israel Bennett walked out of the hold of a slave ship that had just been taken by Jean and his men and announced he was joining the crew had he seen such resolve on the big man’s face. Then, in an instant, his expression contorted and Israel crumpled to the deck.

  Jean crumpled with him, dropping the cutlass as he ripped away the rough cloth of Israel’s shirt to see blood pouring from a wound on his shoulder. Israel had been shot.

  He removed his own shirt to use it as a bandage. “Connor,” he shouted above the din. “Someone find Evan Connor. This man needs a doctor’s attention.”

  Israel turned his head to look up at Jean, his face etched with pain. “And you, Jean Beaumont, need the Lord’s attention. Do not do this thing you have planned, whatever it is. It will not bring you the relief you seek.”

  He looked up past Israel’s prone body to where Cordoba now lay on the deck. One of Jean’s men had wrestled a flintlock pistol from the Spaniard and held him in place with a foot to his back.

  Connor arrived in the company of several other men and pushed Jean aside. As he rose, he felt Israel’s hand on his leg.

  “Revenge will not be as sweet as you think,” the big man said. “It is the Lord’s alone and not yours or mine.”

  Several responses occurred to him. Jean said none of them.

  Instead, he rose to cross the deck and removed the flintlock pistol from the sailor’s hand. Giving the order for his men to leave them and not intervene, Jean stared down at the man who had haunted his nightmares.

  “Stand and face me, Cordoba,” he said through clenched jaw. “It is time to look reckoning in the eyes.”

  Antonio Cordoba climbed to his feet with what appeared to be some measure of difficulty. Jean watched dispassionately as the older man stumbled and required the use of the rail behind him to finally stand upright.

  Standing in insolent silence, the defeated enemy dared to smile.

  Forgotten.

  Jean advanced on the man, reaching for his cutlass only to realize he’d left it on the deck beside Israel. No matter, he decided, as his fist landed the first punch. Cordoba responded with a blow that glanced off Jean’s shoulder.

  Immediately his crewmen surrounded them to pull the Spaniard away. “Release him and leave us,” Jean called. “No matter what happens, do not intervene.”

  The last man to leave released the nobleman. Cordoba made a show of straightening his coat and adjusting his sleeves. Still that infernal smile remained.

  When they were alone—or at least left alone with wary crewmen grudgingly watching from a distance while they pretended to work—Jean moved closer. Though Cordoba’s smile wavered slightly, it did not disappear.

  “Something you wish to say?” the Spaniard asked.

  “Much,” he managed through clenched jaw. “But I would have you speak first in hopes you’ll say something that will convince me not to dispatch you to the place you belong.”

  “Ah,” he said slowly. “I see your dilemma. You wish revenge for something so inconsequential to me that I no longer recall it. That must upset you greatly.”

  Forgotten.

  Jean managed a ragged breath. His fingers clutched air and wished for his weapon.

  “Oh,” Cordoba continued. “It does. I see it. I also see you’ve left your weapon with your unfortunate friend. A pity I missed when I was aiming for you.”

  Jean hit him again, and this time the Spaniard went down hard. As he lay on the sloping deck, Antonio Cordoba had the audacity to laugh.

  “Feel any better?” he taunted as he lay there. “Go find a weapon and come back. I will wait. Then you can finish me off and be done with whatever revenge you’ve been seeking.”

  Everything in him wanted to do as the older man said. And yet Jean remained in place.

  “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

  “No?” Cordoba said with a lift of his brows as he sat up to rest on his elbows. “Ah, well, fine then. You’re one who wishes to exact pain before vengeance. You wish me to hurt as you have hurt. Go ahead.” He stood and held out his arms. “I’ll not fight back. I no longer have it in me. Just be done with it.”

  Again Jean found he could not move. Could not do the one thing he’d plotted and planned for all these many years.

  “Oh, I see,” Cordoba continued. “You wish to make me remember those I’ve killed. I did kill someone you loved, yes?” He shrugged. “Well then, let me relieve you of that burden. I choose not to remember any of them because they were of no consequence.”

  Something inside Jean broke open, and all the hate he had held in check was released. What happened next was a blur of motion wrapped in blind anger. Despite his claim, the Spaniard fought back like a man half his age.

  A burning pain seared across Jean’s bare chest. He looked down to find a slash of blood and then at the dagger in Cordoba’s hand.

  Dodging a sweep of the blade, Jean landed a swift but sure kick to the center of the Spaniard’s chest, sending him tumbling backward. Cordoba dropped the dagger, and Jean reached for it.

  The deck tilted and Jean missed his chance to steal the knife. Instead, he toppled overboard with Cordoba right behind him.

  Debris littered the water around them and the salt water stung, but the battle cont
inued.

  “Let him go.”

  Jean froze, his hands on the Spaniard’s throat. He looked at the man in his grasp and saw nothing. No fear. No anger. No recollection of his sins against the family Jean had lost. Against Jean himself.

  Just nothing.

  “Let him go.”

  His feet treading water to keep himself and the Spaniard from slipping beneath the waves, Jean looked around to find the source of the words he’d once again heard so clearly.

  “Who is there?” he called.

  “No one.” Cordoba sneered even as he gasped for breath. “You’ve called off your men. No one is there.”

  “Who is there?” he called again.

  “I AM.”

  “Let him go.”

  So he did.

  Mary Lytton Cordoba stood in the foyer of her home in the most fashionable part of Madrid and willed herself to remain upright. Two words echoed in her head: they’re gone. She gripped the stair rail, its newel post covered in pure gold, and tried to understand.

  How could Antonio just take her? And more important, why? He’d rarely spared their daughter a moment since her birth.

  “And where is my granddaughter?” Don Pablo Cordoba called from the front steps.

  Antonio’s father, a man closer to Mary than her own father had been, stepped inside and handed his hat to the cowering maid. The girl skittered away from the elegantly dressed nobleman, her head ducked as if he might strike her.

  Don Pablo turned his attention to Mary, his ever-present smile in place. “In all the times I have paid visits to this home of yours, Mary, my sweet Maribel has never failed to greet me at the door.”

  “Oh, Papa,” she finally managed when she could speak. “Our Maribel is gone.”

  “Gone?” Horror etched his features. “Impossible. I saw her only last month and her health was outstanding.”

  “No,” she said as she moved toward Don Pablo to reach for his hand. “She has gone away. With Antonio.” Despite her best efforts to calm herself, Mary’s voice rose along with her fears. “He has taken her from me. He sent me off on an errand, and when I returned, he had her things packed up and she was gone.”