by Landra Graf
The cheerful woman turned and smiled. “Ciao, bello.” Hello, handsome. He recognized the words only because his mother’s housekeeper had spoken the language fluently. Picking up a few phrases had happened naturally over the years.
He nodded in acknowledgement and gestured to the coffeepot on the stove.
“Ah, si. Si,” she said, grabbing a cup from an open cupboard and pouring a steady stream of dark brown liquid into it.
He extended his hands to take it from her, but she refused to hand it over until a dollop of cream and a sprinkle of spice were applied. As he finally embraced the chipped porcelain, he blew over the top, watching the cream melt into the coffee.
The woman smiled at him and pointed at herself, “Bonita. Te?” You.
“Ian.” He brought the chipped porcelain to his lips and tilted to receive the gift inside.
Instead he got burned, the hot liquid splashing against his lips as a hand gripped his shoulder, hard.
He hissed. “What in the Holy Mary?”
Bonita crossed herself at his words and reached out, taking the mug, which he gladly relinquished.
He turned and found himself face to face with Bastille. “You want a go at round two?”
The man raised an eyebrow. “No, but the captain wishes to speak to you in her quarters.”
The fact he had gotten an invitation probably pissed the first mate off, but after ruining his morning caffeine indulgence, he didn’t care.
“All right, lead on.”
His guide turned and exited the room. Before he could follow, the lovely cook, her auburn hair peeking out the sides of her cap, handed him another steaming cup and a roll.
He smiled and inclined his head as his mama had always taught him. “Thank you kindly, bella.”
A few quick steps helped him catch up to Bastille, who was already down the hall and knocking on the door across from his. The entire night she’d been footsteps away, a temptation for sure. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, and it’d pay to remember that now.
She called out, “Enter.”
Ian followed the gargantuan man as they walked into a room with colorful silk cloths hanging from a bed, draped over tables, and serving as curtains around a much larger porthole. The adornments and wood-carved vanity against the far wall gave the room an exotic texture, suggesting he’d been transported to a harem in East India. He’d never seen one, but whenever he imagined a harem, it looked something like this, only with more women.
“Good morning, ma’am.” He offered a standard greeting, something neutral, as he stepped into her lair. The captain stood behind a desk, focused on the maps and lists she’d laid out before her. She was scribbling notes and looking ten times the dish she’d been the night before.
Her gaze came up from the papers, and she didn’t spare him a glance. “Leave us, Bastille. Alert me once we arrive in Nordberg.”
“Aye, Captain.” The first mate departed, shutting the door behind him.
“Alone at last.” Ian took a sip from his coffee cup and a bite of the roll, enjoying the delicious combination of the sweetness of the pastry and the bitter, blessed taste of roasted beans. “How do you get coffee on this ship? I haven’t had it in months.”
“I smuggle it as good sky pirates do. Now what are we going to find in this town?”
He held up a spare pinky and motioned to his mouth. Mama’s first rule: never talk with your mouth full, especially in front of a lady.
He took those masticating moments to get lost in her face, her deep blue eyes, the lines of her eyebrows—midnight black like her hair. Except for the bang line hanging over her forehead, the bulk of her tresses hung in two long braids, flowing past her hips like twin ropes. He hadn’t noticed any of this the night before. No, her beauty had been tucked up and hidden underneath her head covering.
“Nordberg,” he paused to clear his throat, “is where I’m to meet my contact. They promised to leave a man there to meet up with me and tell me where to drop the bounty.”
He chose to leave out the part about where he’d been expected a week prior. No sense in causing worry. Sometimes the rules of survival trumped Mama’s rule about honesty being key.
She put the pen down on the desk. “Where should my men look for him?”
“I thought I’d take care of that.”
“I’m afraid your leaving the ship is out of the question.” She shrugged. “I don’t trust bounty hunters, especially ones who are working for the most cutthroat mercenary gang in the world.”
He finished the last drop of coffee and set the cup on her desk. Sadly, it hadn’t lasted long enough, much like her illusion about who he was. “I’m not a bounty hunter.”
“Really? Then what are you?”
“A merchant coerced into bounty hunting. My name is Ian Marshall, at your service.” No sense in denying his true profession. By N’awlins standards, he qualified as a merchant, an illegal one, but still….
“That explains a lot of things, but I’ll still have to insist you stay on the ship and let my men retrieve your contact. I don’t trust any man willing to do The Cursed’s dirty work.” She stepped around the desk that separated them.
His breath hitched as he glimpsed her wide-legged trousers and belt, all of tanned hide, paired with a matching leather vest over a white blouse. Rubber soled boots completed the ensemble. Something about a woman in clothes intended for a man awoke a few anatomical parts he’d rather leave sleeping. His experience with women came from ballrooms and gatherings where ladies preferred fancy dresses with long trains and exposed backs and wore cloying perfume designed to choke the life from a man.
He shook his head. “Bad idea. My contact is supposed to speak with me. He won’t talk to anyone else.”
“Oh, we’re not going to talk. We’re going to bring him to you. Then you can ask him where his boss, Luther, is hiding.” She stopped less than a foot away and leaned back, resting her palms on the desk.
“I thought this was a conversation. You state what you want, I state what I want, and we compromise, as God intended.”
The comment earned him a flash of her priceless smile. “If God believed conversation led to compromise, then the kaiser would’ve never started a war.”
“I’m not talking about the past; I’m speaking about the future.” The attraction and want winding though his limbs demanded he take a step forward, a step closer.
“You seem to forget that, like Germany, on my ship there is only one rule.”
Maybe he imagined it, but her breathing sounded shallow. Did his presence affect her the way she affected him?
“A good leader knows when to break those rules.” He leaned in, catching a hint of gardenias surrounding her. “You smell—”
“We’ve reached Nordberg, Captain,” Bastille announced as he shoved the door open. No censure in the first mate’s voice, just matter-of-fact truth.
The captain side-stepped him and pivoted, putting necessary distance between them. Thank goodness because he’d been ready to do something he’d probably regret.
She turned, the playful look from earlier gone. “Where is the contact?”
“He’ll be at the Boar’s Horns tavern; no names are given. Say to the barkeep, ‘I seek one who’s lost all hope.’”
“Anything else?”
“The contact will respond with ‘You’ll not find him here.’”
***
Two hours later….
They’d anchored in port, and Bastille set off with one additional guard to retrieve the contact. Yet Sorella still thought about the near kiss the merchant-bounty hunter had attempted. No use even thinking his name or making things personal, except she’d been ready to allow him the opportunity to kiss her. How many men wanted such a thing? How many weren’t threatened by her heritage or skills?
“Castoa, they’ve returned,” said one of her hands from the deck railing
She briskly took th
e staircase from the helm area to the main deck, the tension in her shoulders melting with each step. This contact presented her with an opportunity to finally locate her target. If things didn’t work out, she’d kill a Cursed pirate and a merchant who should’ve stayed home.
The deck filled up with crew members ready to watch like people attending the theater. So little entertainment in their lives. Ian had been summoned as well and leaned against the staircase railing. “Why Captain Chaste? Is that really your name?”
The fact he’d deciphered the definition of the Italian word castoa to mean chaste surprised her more than the fact he’d become the first one to question her chosen moniker. So far, this man had proved to be unlike any she’d ever met, and against all her instincts, all her training, a tiny piece of her normally indifferent heart prayed he’d survive.
“Are you sure this man will know the location?”
He straightened and tugged at the ends on his brocade vest. He guarded himself well, keeping all his belongings on him. The girl she’d sent to clean his rooms reported he’d left nothing to search. “He’s supposed to. I can’t say he’ll talk with an audience.”
“Well, he doesn’t have much of a choice.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” He stepped away from his post next to the stairs and toward the edge of the ship, expression shuttered. She’d effectively shut down personal involvement. Then why did guilt gnaw at her gut like rats with scraps?
Instead of being allowed to arrive in a dignified fashion, The Cursed contact was tossed onto the Liberté deck like a sack of potatoes. His hair was long, his face unshaven, and his ratty brown clothes hung from his frame. The doomed soul looked every bit as disreputable as regular street trash.
“Are you sure this is him?” she asked.
Hauling himself over the deck edge, Bastille rubbed a hand over his bald top. “The con responded to the summons that he,” a thick finger pointed toward Ian, gave.”
The idiot now stood and plucked at the shoulders on his long coat, putting it back in place. “You’ll set me back on the ground if you know what’s good for you.”
Sorella walked toward him, crossing her arms and slipping her hand up to the balisong holster underneath her jacket, the cold metal against her skin a reassurance and a temptation. “I don’t believe that’s an option right now, Mr…?”
“Heim.”
“Indeed. First, I don’t negotiate with known killers and people who generally steal from anyone to make a profit. Second, I have a gentleman on my ship who wishes to speak with you.” She stepped to her left, giving way for the merchant-bounty hunter to come forward. Her crew, men who’d lost family members to the slave trades and clandestine practices of The Cursed, closed in on three sides. He wouldn’t escape here alive regardless of the information he possessed. There’d be no way she’d be able to grant his passage. She’d promised those of her men who had suffered at the gang’s hands a chance to kill any gang member, given the opportunity, if she didn’t kill him first. Ian had survived merely because he’d claimed to be a bounty hunter, freelance.
The hunter spoke next. “Where is the rendezvous?”
“Why would I tell you now? You welched on the original agreement.”
Ian glanced at her with a frown. He’d warned her against this, but she couldn’t risk him bringing trouble to her ship or anyone taking Tuul by force. If that happened, she’d never have her chance to find Luther.
“I can’t deliver the goods if I don’t know where to go.” The charm this would-be bounty hunter employed fascinated her. He grinned and cajoled where she’d maim.
“There’s others that will be only too happy to take the bounty off your hands.” Heim smiled. “I’ll make sure to let them know where you are.”
To hell with patience and difficult people! Grasping her balisong, Sorella moved quickly, bobbing around the merchant’s body. A flick of her wrist, and the blade flipped open. She stabbed, sure and true, right into Heim’s chest then pulled back. A reverse pull closed the blade, and she secured it in her holster as the unfortunate man fell.
“I’m afraid the bounty isn’t fair game,” Sorella replied, motioning to her men to finish the job. They swarmed. The contact had turned out to be a dead end. Time to start reviewing the maps again.
Not bothering to spare a glance toward her companions or the dead body, she strode down the hall, heading for her cabin. Boot steps sounded behind her, heavy and ominous. Here’s where the merchant will wear out his welcome.
“Why did you kill the one person who’d tell us where The Cursed are hiding?”
She reached her door and stopped. “He wasn’t going to tell us anything.”
“You don’t know that. I could’ve worn him down.”
Such a statement required a laugh. “Really? With words or false promises?”
“One. Both. Why does it matter as long as you get the answers you want?” He’d moved closer, filling her personal space with broad shoulders and a clear view of the stubble forming on his chin.
“Yes, it does. I don’t deal in false promises or threats. I deal in action. Word spreads, and then no one doubts my level of patience. No one hesitates to answer questions.”
She knew Bastille stood a few meters away, waiting for a sign or motion to remove a threat from her presence. Leaning back she called out, “Tell the boys to pick the body clean, all belongings removed, wrap him, and store him.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Then she strode through her cabin door and slammed it in the merchant’s face. He can think what he wants, ideals and such be damned. She’d been robbed of a part of her family and had deployed all her talents and skills to locate the person she’d lost. A dealer in coin and goods couldn’t understand that, and explaining was a waste of precious time. Her lack of explanation and clipped words were the best deterrent she had, short of killing the fool.
Hopefully, he’d be afraid.
Chapter Three
Ian stared at the wood door for a minute, confused as hell. He still didn’t fully comprehend how the captain had done it, how she’d killed a man in less than five seconds with one move and without direct contact with her hands. Anger superseded all else then. The woman apparently thought killing solved every problem. At this rate, he wouldn’t gain his freedom at all.
Heim’s words echoed in his mind, too. Others were happy to finish the job, meaning that since Ian had failed to deliver his bounty a week prior, Luther had already spread the word about Tuul.
Damn. He pounded the wall next to the door. Only one option remained. It’d mean going to his hometown and entering a skin trader’s den. No sense letting the captain continue to control this situation. He knew more about The Cursed, possessed more knowledge about their contacts and allies scattered across continents, than anyone on this ship.
With a mind to put her in her place, he opened the door and walked right in. When he turned to shut it, giving them privacy, a steel whistle rent the air, followed by a loud thud. To his left, a metal blade, its two handles locked together with a small clasp, protruded from the wood inches from his head.
He rotated, eyebrows raised.
“Who gave you permission to enter?” she growled at him. Why the sound of her deep voice went straight to his groin, he didn’t know, but the attraction rose regardless. Even the knife in the door, the idea she could murder without hesitation, but didn’t, made him want her. Damn it to hell.
“No one but you needs to know where to go next, and I have that information.” He stepped away from the blade, walking further into the room. She’d taken off her jacket and stood, white blouse visible, bosom obscured by the vest, at the far side of her cabin. He was starting to pay attention to body parts he shouldn’t. “What the hell did you throw at me?”
Confusion bloomed on her face, and her brows furrowed. “What?”
“The knife. What is that thing?”
“A balisong. Why?” She stood on the other
side of the room still, near the porthole.
He stepped up to her desk, looking at the map pile. “I like to know what people are trying to kill me with.”
He failed to hear her move, didn’t even know she’d taken a position behind him, until he felt a sharp edge slip through his shirt seams and poke his belly.
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“Why don’t you?” The words came out in a whisper. Somehow, her close proximity called for such a thing.
She removed the knife and slinked away to stand on the opposite side of the desk. “Because you said you can tell me where we go next. Who would know where they are?”
He shook his head, clearing away the sexual want she’d left in her wake, and began flipping through the maps on the table. She didn’t interrupt him but stood quiet and vigilant as he searched for what he needed—the map of the United States of America.
Finally, he found it and pulled the parchment from the bottom of the pile to the top. “When’s the last time you crossed the Atlantic?”
“Six months. Maybe more,” she replied, leaning in to observe where he was pointing on the map. “New Or-leans?” Her pronunciation was slow, but accurate.
“Yes, that’s where we have to go.”
“Who’s there?”
A cutthroat asshole who’d sell anyone if given the chance. “A man. Janken. He’s a jazz musician.”
“And a slave trader.” She’d heard of him.
“Didn’t you hear? The United States abhors the slave trade. They don’t deal in it.” He let the sarcasm come out thick.
“Lies told by a president bent on pretending his country is pure.”
It’d been twenty years since Wilson had closed the United States borders to Europe and other countries, ten years since the now serving President Franklin D. Roosevelt had been elected, and five years since he had acknowledged limited trade and held discussions with the kaiser. Those talks had centered around potential partnerships between a German-ruled Europe and a self-sufficient United States, a country home to citizens who sold the children they couldn’t feed and searched black markets for items only found overseas.