by Bree Wolf
“Father, I love–”
“Sail ho!”
At the cry from the crow’s nest, all heads turned upward and then swept out to sea following the direction the sailor in the lookout indicated. On the distant horizon, white sails rose out of the water.
Rushing forward to the rail, her father pulled out his spyglass. “It’s English,” he said before handing the spyglass to Violette. “A merchant ship, most likely from London port.”
Violette nodded as she took note of the small details that gave away a ship’s origin and purpose. “It’s running low. The hold must be full.” Looking at her father, a slow grin spread over her face. “She won’t be able to outrun us.”
A slight twitch around her father’s mouth betrayed his thoughts before he stepped toward her. “Perhaps one day we’ll be able to outfit two ships after all,” he whispered to her before rushing up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
Violette could have shrieked with joy. Instead, she sank her teeth into her lower lip and hurried after her father as her pulse adjusted to the new adventure waiting on the horizon.
“Hoist the colours!” her father called as he crossed the quarterdeck in long strides. Instantly, the French flag was raised, its coloured stripes flapping in the wind, a symbol of their allegiance, of their home.
But even more so, of their family.
At the sight, Violette felt her heart swell with pride.
When her father shouted for his crew to prepare the ship for a turn, Violette rushed to man the lines with the rest of the sailors, knowing that it was her insistence on pulling her weight that had earned her the respect of her father’s crew. If she ever wanted to be captain of her own ship–whenever that day might come! –she would have to work hard to prove her worth.
And she would.
Out of the corner of her eye, Violette saw her father rush to the helm and speak to Henri, ordering him to pursue the ship. It still seemed like a ghost dancing over the waves, its white sails barely visible in the early morning light as it peeked over the horizon, its rays setting the world aglow. Fortunately, they would attack from the east with the rising sun, hiding in its blinding light until it was too late for the English merchant ship. Once they saw their approach, they would not have time to escape.
“Come about!”
At her father’s command, Henri turned the wheel, directing the ship into the wind, while Violette once more joined the rest of the crew in manning the lines, her heart racing as the Chevalier Noir began its turn, cutting through the water like a knife through butter. The rope burned in her hands as they released the main sheet. Then they rushed to untie the jib, a small triangular sheet, from the starboard side and reattached it at the port side so it would catch the wind and bring them closer to their prize.
Once the main sheet was secured once more, they were in pursuit.
Returning to her spot at the bow, Violette kept her eyes firmly fixed on the white sails on the horizon. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest as the ship slowly came within reach. Her hands gripped the rail, and she leaned into the wind, momentarily closing her eyes. Then she inhaled a deep breath and looked down into the churning water as the Chevalier Noir cut through it like a spear. Excitement coursed through her veins as it had many times before, and she wondered if she would ever tire of this life.
Violette could not imagine it to be so.
“Do not hesitate,” she whispered to herself as she saw her future looming before her and all she had to do was seize it. “Do not hesitate, Duret, for the world belongs to the daring.”
***
Jerking awake, Oliver shot upright, his ears ringing as his mind tried to focus. Slumber still hung heavily on the corners of his consciousness, and it took him a moment to remember where he was.
Loud footsteps and angry voices cut through the momentary stillness.
Oliver flinched. So, it had not been a dream after all!
Pulling on his coat, Oliver stumbled from his assigned cabin and out into the gangway, his head objecting to the sudden change in plans. Although sleep had done him good, it had not yet completely restored him to his former self. He still felt a little queasy in the stomach, and he hoped with all his might that it was not a matter of seasickness. Would not his father love this? After all of Oliver’s dreams and hopes, they were now thwarted by something as ordinary as a weak stomach.
When he finally set foot on deck, Oliver could not help but stare at the commotion. Sailors ran here and there–seemingly randomly–shouting to one another, their faces taut with concern. Tension hung in the air, and Oliver felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
Glancing around, he found Captain Harris standing on the poop deck, spyglass in hand.
Without hesitation, Oliver rushed up the ladder, slightly cringing at the small stab behind his left temple that seemed to have no intention of ever abandoning its post. Still, he kept moving until he reached the captain.
Only then did he dare turn around to look.
“They’re gaining on us,” Captain Harris grumbled under his breath as Oliver stared in amazement at the three-masted ship slowly advancing on them. “Damn French privateers!”
“A privateer?” Oliver croaked, then cleared his throat and finally blinked. Was he still asleep? Or was this truly happening?
Glancing at him with that rather annoyed look in his eyes, Captain Harris shoved the spyglass into Oliver’s hands. “See for yourself.”
Feeling his hands tremble with excitement, Oliver lifted the spyglass to his eye, closing the other. For a moment, he saw nothing. Nothing clear at least, until his vision focused, and he saw it. There at the top of the mast, billowing in the wind, was the French flag!
“What now?” Oliver asked, glancing around as he found the spot beside him empty.
Captain Harris stood by the back rail, staring out at the ship pursuing them as though he could make it disappear through sheer willpower. His jaw was clenched, and his shoulders slumped. And the look on his face sent a shiver down Oliver’s back.
The odds were not in their favour, were they?
In that moment, a deafening sound slammed into Oliver, shattering the already loud air around him, as a cannon ball ripped through the sky, crashing into the waters on the starboard side of their ship.
“A warning shot!” a sailor yelled, his voice carrying far in the sudden stillness.
Oliver felt his heart pumping as terror gripped him. Still, he could not deny that never in his life had he felt this alive!
Rushing to Captain Harris’s side, Oliver stared at the man’s face as he drew in a slow breath. “What do we do?”
The captain shrugged, a disgusted frown on his face, his lips curled into a snarl as he spat into the water. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“But–”
“With our hull full, we’re too slow to outrun them and too slow to make a turn and meet them,” Captain Harris explained, annoyance in his eyes as he looked at Oliver. “They’ll be blasting us to kingdom come before we’ve fully come about.”
Feeling his shoulders slump and his skin crawl, Oliver stared at the captain in disbelief. “Then what do we do?” This couldn’t be it, could it?
“We surrender,” Captain Harris said, his voice barely audible with utter defeat. He shook his head before lifting his head and yelled for someone to raise the white flag.
“Surrender?” Oliver asked, not certain whether he felt frightened or simply disappointed.
Captain Harris met his questioning gaze with an angry one of his own. “Yes, surrender. The ship and the cargo are lost no matter what we do.” He pointed at the approaching ship. “They’ll sink us if we don’t surrender, and then all on board–including you, my lord–will die. Does that sound like a better option?”
Oliver hung his head for it certainly did not.
But was this truly the end of his adventure?
Chapter Seven – Two Vessels
Adrenaline pumped through Violette’s vein
s as the Chevalier Noir gained on the merchant ship. When they raised the white flag after the warning shot had been fired, triumph flooded her as well as a hint of disappointment. Yes, they were victorious, and yet, it seemed too easy.
Reminding herself that the other ship was far from secured, Violette drew her sword and pistol as the Chevalier Noir came alongside the merchant vessel. As the sea was rather steady, deckhands threw grapple hooks, slowly pulling the two ships together. All the while, they kept a watchful eye on the other vessel’s crew as they huddled together in the centre of the main deck, their eyes shooting daggers.
Her father was standing on deck, Henri beside him, both armed to the teeth as were the members of the crew who were to board the other vessel with them.
Standing slightly elevated on the forecastle deck, Violette let her eyes sweep over them, meeting a gaze here and there, returning a nod or a wink of one of her fellow crew members. They had the same sense of adventure in their eyes as she felt boiling in her own blood.
Jacques grinned at her. “It’s been too long,” he said chuckling, flipping the cutlass in his hand.
Violette nodded in affirmation. “Indeed, it has.”
From the other ship, Violette could feel eyes watching their every move. However, before long all eyes turned to her when the merchant sailors came to realise that she was a woman. Her breeches and overcoat did not immediately reveal her gender. Still, her long plaited hair hanging over her shoulder managed to do so on closer inspection.
Never had Violette hidden her hair. After all, she had never had the intention of pretending that she was a man. She was not. However, that did not mean she was not capable. She was who she was, and she was proud of it.
So instead of cutting or pinning up her hair and hiding it under a large hat, she had it plaited in the back to keep it out of her way. Only a few loose tendrils managed to escape her tight control as the strong wind out at sea was no match for even the tightest braid. They blew in the wind, whipping into her face. Still, Violette never felt the need to pin them up. The way they brushed over her face and tugged on her scalp made her feel free. It reminded her of the sea being tossed about on an ever-changing course.
Squaring her shoulders, Violette looked over at the merchant ship, the look in her eyes hardening as they prepared to board.
***
Standing among the sailors, Oliver felt his heart racing in his chest. Although he was not without talent and had had his share amount of violent altercations, this was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Quite frankly, it was more than he had bargained for. How on earth could he have been so foolish to have allowed himself to end up on this ship? How could he have been so foolish to let that happen?
He sighed. It would seem his father had been right after all. Still, despite their enemies’ fierce look, they were privateers, were they not? Not pirates! If he was not thoroughly mistaken, then the usual practise was to ransom captured sailors back to their homelands. What would they do if they found out who he was? Would they ransom him back to his father? Would he pay?
A grim chuckle escaped Oliver’s throat as he pictured his father’s face upon being informed of his son’s latest predicament. Surely, he would be tempted not to pay the demanded ransom. However, in the end, he did not have a choice, did he? Oliver was his only son. More importantly, he was his only heir. And although he might not pay to have his son returned, Oliver did not doubt that he would do whatever was necessary to keep the title in the family. Thus, he would begrudgingly pay to have his heir returned.
Unfortunately for his father, his son and heir were one and the same. He could not rid himself of one while keeping the other.
Which in turn was fortunate for Oliver.
As the ships were slowly being pulled toward one another, Oliver turned his gaze to the privateer and his crew. Two dark-haired men stood side by side, their expressions stern, their eyes sharp as they observed the merchant vessel’s crew with equal frankness. Both men were tall with broad shoulders and a pronounced chin, their resemblance suggesting a familial relation. Perhaps father and son as one looked about twenty years older than the other. The older man, Oliver assumed, was the captain of the ship.
On the side of the ship, Oliver could make out the vessel’s name: Chevalier Noir, the Black Knight. Oliver nodded, thinking it a fitting match for the dark-haired man with the sharp eyes.
Murmurs went through the sailors around him, and Oliver abandoned his observations, trying to catch what they were saying.
“That one’s a woman.”
“Are you daft? Women don’t sail.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a woman.”
“You must be losing your eyesight.”
Craning his neck, Oliver let his gaze sweep over the privateer’s crew, his pulse hammering at the thought of a woman on board. Had she been kidnapped? Was she a prisoner? Possibly an English prisoner?
When Oliver finally saw her, his heart seemed to stop, and his breath caught in his throat. Not because of her beautiful face or the figure she struck standing at the bow a sword in her hand and a pistol strapped to her hip. Nor was it the golden tendrils dancing in the wind or her stunningly blue eyes with a spark of violet in them.
No, it was the calm serenity that rested in her eyes. Here was someone–a woman no less–who knew exactly where she belonged, where her place in this world was. There was no doubt. No question. No hesitation.
How had she ended up on that ship? For she was clearly not a prisoner, but a member of the crew. Was she the captain’s wife? Never had he heard of a captain allowing his wife on board? Much less allowing her to carry a weapon?
Still, here she was, far away from the restrictions her gender placed on her. How had she freed herself? Oliver wondered, envy burning in his chest as he watched her.
Standing tall–proud!–she kept her gaze firmly on the group of sailors around him, her hair whipping in the wind as though she could not wait to charge and board their ship. Although it was tied in the back, her curls seemed wild, dancing around her face, doing little to soften her sharp features and the steely look in her eyes. Like the dark-haired captain, she wore well-fitting breeches, a white shirt peeking out from under her dark tailcoat as well as leather boots, allowing her to move as she pleased.
Never in his life had Oliver seen a woman more beautiful.
A shudder went through the planks under his feet as the two ships finally collided, and Oliver’s gaze was ripped from the vision standing at the bow.
The captain of the privateer stepped up onto the rail of his ship, his dark gaze travelling over the crowd before him. “Relinquish your weapons!” he boomed, and yet, his voice was calm and calculated. Pointing to the far side of the captured ship, he watched with his pistol drawn–as did those of his crew–as Captain Harris as well as his sailors dropped their weapons into a random pile, then stepped back, their heads bowed in defeat.
Only then did the privateer crew board the merchant vessel. While some stood guard in a loose circle around the captured sailors, others proceeded to search the ship, weapons at the ready in case someone lay in hiding, foolish enough to risk his life in a futile attempt to defend the ship.
Oliver’s gaze once more fell on the woman, whose practised movements as well as the way she handled her sword and pistol told him that she was far from being an amateur. In fact, she seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and he was certain that this was not her first time boarding a ship.
Shaking his head, Oliver felt the desperate need to learn how she had ended up on this ship as a part of the crew. How had she managed that? And what kind of a life was that? Was it truly her choice? Was she happy?
Once more, envy reared its ugly head.
If only.
Chapter Eight – A Rare Woman
With the merchant vessel’s crew presently secured above deck, Violette followed Henri down into the belly of the ship. With their weapons drawn, they proceeded slowly and carefully, expecti
ng a surprise attack at any moment.
Desperate moments made people do desperate things. They had seen it more than once. And although there was no chance that a single sailor could retake the ship from her father’s grasp, there was no use in her and Henri dying in the attempt.
Step by step, they searched the ship with other men of their crew, heading to the lower decks and inspecting the hold. “Today seems to be a fortunate day, non?” Henri exclaimed when they laid eyes on the countless stacks of crates and barrels. “This was easy.”
“Too easy,” Violette mumbled, unable to shake the sense of disappointment that had clung to her ever since the merchant ship had raised the white flag.
Turning back, Henri looked at her, his sharp green eyes travelling over her face in that familiar, rather disconcerting way of his. “You seem disappointed.”
Violette shrugged, then turned to head back up the ladder way.
“Wait,” Henri called before his hand curled around her arm, pulling her back. His other hand settled under her chin, making her look up at him. A slow grin spread over his face. Still, his eyes remained serious as though his attempt at humour was merely a way to coax her into revealing her thoughts. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever known who enjoys the thrill of battle,” he observed, a question in his tone.
Holding his gaze, Violette shrugged. “It makes me feel alive.” Although her cousin had removed his hand from her chin, she knew better than to try and avoid the question. Henri was like a dog with a bone. If he suspected something, he was relentless.
“Now, we’ll return to France,” he continued, his eyes sharp as they held hers, “to sell the ship and the cargo and hand over the prisoners to be ransomed back to England.” A teasing grin curled up his lips. “It’s a good day.”
Violette swallowed. “It’s a delay.”
Henri’s gaze narrowed before understanding flickered over his face. “You were looking forward to seeing your old home again, n’est-ce pas?”