by Jaimey Grant
Smiles she’d bestowed aplenty, but the smiles never reached her dark eyes. And now, in the midst of physical pain, the anguish of loss and the terrifying fear of death, Derringer remembered her dark, sad eyes, eyes so much like his own.
The loss of Gabriel touched Derringer in a horrific way. He wanted vengeance, a painful, slow death for the ones responsible. And he knew who they were. They didn’t bother to hide their identities which only meant one thing.
They didn’t plan on letting him live.
He had to survive. His shoulders tensed as he pulled against his bonds, sending more blood sliding down his fingers. If he didn’t escape, Leandra would be in trouble.
His motions stilled, one thought freezing his blood. What if Leandra carried a child? How stupid he was to take her to his bed! Her life was already at risk, just through her marriage to him and now, if she carried a possible heir, she stood in the way.
He looked around the ship’s cabin, searching for a weapon, a path for escape, anything that might help. He came up empty, as usual, but it was something to occupy his mind in the long hours between meals and beatings.
His morale was fading, his faith in his own ability to extricate himself from any situation dissipating like morning fog. But his desire for vengeance burned bright. While pretending Gabriel’s death was the final straw, letting his captors think he was finally broken, he plotted.
The next step in their torture was cutting things from his body that would not kill him but leave him with little will to survive. Feigning that loss of will now might delay the inevitable. But he had to escape.
They had two of the three things they wanted: Harwood’s will and Gabriel’s death. All that remained was Derringer’s death. Fraser D’Arcy wanted him dead as payment long overdue for that horrendous beating the duke had given him all those years ago.
But there was still one person missing in all of this. He knew the identity of the final captor, but he did not want to believe it. There were only two people who would benefit from his demise, only two who may have known Gabriel’s real identity.
His aunt and cousin.
“So you are awake,” inquired a new voice, a pleasant voice, soothing and low. Misleading.
He growled low in his throat, hating that his suspicions were realized. “Martin, release me now.” He forced his body up into a sitting position on the bunk. It was not easy, his bruised, weakened muscles protesting, but he refused to face his captor while lying helpless. “Release me now and I won’t kill you as slowly as you deserve.”
“I hardly think you are in any position to be making demands, cousin,” replied Mr. St. Clair calmly. “I now hold all the dice and you will do as I say, or you will die.”
“You mean I have a choice? How magnanimous of you, worthless scum. Tell me, oh cowardly one, what must I do to ensure my survival?”
Martin moved across the tiny cabin in seconds. He struck out, snapping Derringer’s head back with the force of his blow. The duke glared, a trickle of blood coloring his bottom lip, his coal-black eyes taking on a dangerous glitter.
“You had better pray whatever god you worship will save you, Martin, because when I am free, I will hunt you down like the dog you are and tear you limb from limb,” the duke promised with unutterable calm.
A flicker of fear passed through Martin’s eyes even though Derringer was quite unable to make good his threat at that moment. The duke’s reputation was such that even tied up, immobile, those who crossed him still feared him.
Martin’s blue eyes darkened and his slight form stiffened. “You would do better not to make threats, cousin. I can still kill you and I happen to know your friend D’Arcy wants just that.”
“I assume that whatever you have planned, you will end up with my title. So what is it, dog? I disappear? My body is found somewhere quite soon, washed up on my own beach perhaps but too mutilated to be identifiable? You can’t honestly be considering letting me live? If so, you are far stupider than even I gave you credit for.”
Anger settled on Martin’s normally placid features. The expression was so ludicrous that Derringer wanted to laugh. A split second later, however, he knew he had severely underestimated his cousin.
Fire streaked his face, from his jaw to his hairline. Shock paralyzed him, his eyes squeezing shut, the pain so profound he couldn’t determine the cause. He opened his eyes and stifled his outrage.
Martin held a long, wicked looking knife up in the light of the lantern that sat forlornly on a small table. The shiny blade glinted and the duke caught the almost maniacal look that entered his cousin’s eyes as he watched several tiny droplets of blood slither down the blade.
Derringer nearly growled. The miserable cur had actually cut him! From his chin to his hairline, judging by the ribbon of pain throbbing across his face.
Just what he needed, he thought. Yet another thing to make him appear a little less than human, inspire fear in even those few souls who didn’t already know his identity.
“I have the strongest urge to skewer you on this blade,” Martin murmured. A shiver snaked through Derringer’s body at the strange tone in Martin’s voice. “But I will resist—for now.”
“What do you want from me, Martin?” inquired the duke, keeping his tone as neutral at possible. He ignored the steady pain in his face. He’d experienced worse.
“Other than your title, you mean? I want your wealth, of course… and, I think, your wife. Such a pretty, taking little thing she is, Heartless. I shall enjoy making her mine.”
Derringer restrained his fury just enough to bite out, “And if she carries my son?”
The ugly twist of Martin’s mouth at the suggestion struck Derringer as odd. Did he not realize the possibility was there?
Martin shuddered, extreme distaste coloring his normally even tones. “Such a waste. She shall have to die.” His lips twitched at the corners as if enjoying some grand jest. “Perhaps I shall push her from the third floor landing. What think you, little duke? Her warm blood cooling as it soaks into the carpet, the same carpet that drank of your mother’s lifeblood. How fitting for one whore duchess to die as her predecessor.”
Crimson rage flashed in Derringer’s brain. All he needed was to get his hands free so he could snap Martin’s neck. Snap his neck and make him pay—finally—for her death.
The duke blinked. Martin’s threat put an image in his head, an image of Leandra, dead, choking in her own blood. But Leandra’s face faded, changed, became another woman’s features, prettier, classical, etched in porcelain.
His mother. He saw her, lying on the landing, her blood strangling her as she gasped for breath. She reached for him, grasping his small hand, squeezing with the last bit of strength she possessed. When she let go, he didn’t understand, not until he looked up and saw his father standing on the landing above.
The old duke descended, staring at his wife as he did so. His gaze shifted to his son, the silent boy who stared from his mother to his father and then up the stairs. He glanced at his sire again, suddenly knowing without a doubt that his mother was there because of his father.
And his father shook him, threatened him, ordered him to forget. And the boy Derringer was then knew fear for the first time in his life, knew his father would kill him as surely as he’d killed the duchess.
As surely as Martin would kill the new duchess.
The memory faded, Martin’s face coming into sharp focus. The knife glinted as the other man turned it this way and that, watching Derringer the whole time.
“You remember?” Martin mused. “How was it, cousin, watching her life slip away? Did you revel in it? Did you feel... powerful? Was it exhilarating?”
The duke growled, yanking at his bonds. To think his cousin was so far gone, so detached from reality. It sickened him, the very thought. But there was nothing he could do about any of it, not until he escaped. If he could only get loose and get his hands around his cousin’s white throat.
His exertions reignited th
e fire in his cheek, a warm trickle of blood sliding down.
Martin took a step back and smiled malevolently at Derringer. “Ah well. I will have to experience it for myself, I see. Meanwhile, I, and the crew, require some entertainment, cousin. At your expense, of course.”
“Of course,” mocked Derringer. He would kill him. If he dared to lay a hand on Leandra, he’d torture him first. “What sort of entertainment do you want? I’d be happy to beat you to a pulp. I don’t suppose you’d volunteer?”
Martin’s thin smile was devoid of any real mirth. “D’Arcy will have that pleasure, cousin.”
“I would be pleased to render the English duke—dead, I think.”
Derringer glanced toward the door, his expression shuttering. “D’Arcy. As usual, it is not a pleasure to see you. It will be, however, a pleasure to best you yet again.” The confidence in his tone rang out clearly and he saw the wiry Frenchman’s face darken with anger.
“I will see you dead this night, Heartless,” he bit out.
“Then I will see you in hell!”
D’Arcy turned and stalked out.
“I fear you have made him angry,” remarked Martin as he cast a bored expression at the closed door. “You will probably die now, Hart.”
“Indeed? You’re all attics to let.” He smirked. “I have bested that slimy frog before. I’ll do so again.”
Martin turned from the door, facing the duke once again. “I shall enjoy watching you die, cousin,” he said in a soft, reassuring tone. Then he walked out as well.
Derringer leaned back in the bunk, weary and afraid he just might die in the coming confrontation. D’Arcy lacked Derringer’s height and breadth but the Frenchman more than made up for that with his speed and willingness to use whatever dishonorable tactics were at his disposal. Derringer also knew in his own weakened state, he really didn’t stand much of a chance.
Closing his eyes, he settled his mind into what he was about to do, determined to come out of it alive. He knew, deep down, that Martin could never allow him to survive, but his only chance of escape would come when he was actually loosed from his bonds.
And so, for the first time in decades, the Duke of Derringer prayed.
Martin paid a visit to the duke again that night. The man stood just beyond Derringer’s reach. Another man stood in the shadows, his features hidden but his size declaring his identity. The man was too broad, too tall, and too quiet to be anyone other than Tiny Boy, a man Derringer often hired to act as protection. A man whose services could be bought, who would do what was asked of him if the price was right.
Who hired him and why? What did they want him to do?
A groan rose in the duke’s throat. If he was expected to fight Tiny, he’d lose. Years ago Derringer and Tiny met, Tiny having been hired to kill Derringer. And Derringer barely survived that encounter. Now, in his weakened physical state, it was unlikely he’d survive, or even last very long.
On the other hand, perhaps Tiny’s loyalty to Derringer would supersede whatever amount Martin paid him. One could hope.
Regardless, Derringer could make no assumptions. So he watched. He watched Martin and he watched Tiny.
He still had a part to play and never one to pass up an opportunity to vex an enemy, Derringer smiled, a patronizing smirk that brought a scowl fluttering over Martin’s pale face. He pushed himself up to sit, cursing how slow he was to do so, then pushed himself to his feet, no easy feat with his hands tied behind his back.
“What do you want, cousin?” Derringer asked.
Martin St. Clair studied the duke for a long moment, pale blue eyes skimming over Derringer’s tall, emaciated form. Then he smiled. “You really should be thanking me, you know,” he finally uttered.
Derringer’s face went as blank as a slate wiped clean. “Why?”
“Well, you should be thanking my father,” Martin clarified. “It was he who made you duke.”
His expression still revealing nothing, Derringer replied, “Indeed?” in an attempt to draw his cousin out on the subject. Although, he really didn’t care what the man said. Derringer intended to kill him anyway.
“Yes, it was my father who damaged your father’s boat.” Pride crossed Martin’s features, further supporting Derringer’s doubts as to the man’s sanity.
“I would ask why he would do such a thing, but I realize he wanted to be duke, so I will refrain.” Derringer smiled grimly. “That would also explain why I’ve been fighting for my life since I was seven.”
Martin took a step closer and the duke saw Tiny move behind the blond man. Interesting. What was Tiny’s plan?
“Do you want to know another secret, Hart?” taunted Martin. “Your wife thinks you’re dead.”
“Is that supposed to surprise me? Or anger me?”
Martin lurched back. “You truly are heartless, cousin, if you care so little for the misery of your bride.”
“She’s a wife, Martin. Where I got her, there are a dozen more. Did you think I would get attached?”
“Only so much as you consider her your property,” Martin smirked, leaning in again, allowing Derringer to feel his breath fan his cheek. “How will you feel, Hart, when I peel her gown from her breasts? When I expose her white thighs, sink myself—”
Derringer’s head slammed forward, cracking into Martin’s. They both stumbled back, the duke falling on the bunk while Martin landed on his backside at Tiny’s feet. Derringer shook the dizziness away, his hair flopping over his eyes. He didn’t see what happened next, but he heard it.
The sound of flesh striking flesh, a grunt, and silence.
Whipping his hair back, Derringer struggled to sit up, flailing about like a landed fish. He managed to uncover one eye, enough to see Tiny standing over Martin.
Blood pooled under Martin’s head. A lot of blood. His cousin’s eyes were open, staring at nothing.
Derringer’s eyes met Tiny’s. “You killed him.”
“He needed to die,” the other man answered, his voice oddly high for one so large.
“But I wanted to kill him. It was my right,” Derringer complained, his vision swimming, his voice coming out like a plaintive child.
Tiny grunted, shoving Martin’s body from his path in the small cabin. “If you want to whine, Heartless, do it at a later time. Now we leave.” He strode forward as he talked, extracting a knife and making short work of the rope binding the duke’s wrists.
Derringer flexed his fingers and shook his head. Black rimmed his vision, dizziness threatening to send him sprawling. “I don’t whine.” He raised his hands, gazing at the burns and scrapes marring his wrists. “Bloody hell, that stings!”
“Whiner.”
“What are you doing here?” Derringer asked, ignoring the insult that would have gotten many a man injured, if not killed. “How did you know? How did you get on board?”
“Why are they keeping you on your own yacht, with your own captain?” Tiny countered, stooping next to Martin’s body. “Rather short-sighted of them, is it not?” He rifled through the dead man’s pockets.
Derringer stopped stretching his cramped muscles, eyes glued to Tiny. “What in hell are you doing now?”
“Taking his money.”
“You have no need of money.”
“He hired me to kill you. Well, D’Arcy did but I don’t see him honoring that agreement.” He glanced up. “Do you?”
The duke shrugged. “Not bloody likely. Take what you will, then. I care not.” He gazed about, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. “D’Arcy hired you to kill me? When?”
“Months ago. I think this one” —gesturing to Martin’s body— “told him to hire someone. They were together often and I laid low when this one was about. Couldn’t take the chance he’s seen me before.” He stood, shoving a bulging purse into his pocket. He held out his closed fist.
“What is it?” The duke accepted the object. It weighed little, though it was large, like most objects of its like. “My ring. No
t sure I want it back,” he muttered, staring down at the signet ring, contempt curling his lip.
He strode to the door, barely noticing the uneven movement of the floor. He did, however, adhere to the dizziness, putting out a hand. Tiny took his arm and kept him upright.
“What news from home?” Derringer asked before his companion could open the door.
“Your wife is pregnant,” Tiny informed him, “if the rumor mill is to be believed.” He paused, a funny, crooked grin curving his lips. “Congratulations, Heartless.”
The duke stared. “Merri’s pregnant?”
32
“Gerard, my most faithful! You have brought the prisoner to me.”
Derringer glanced at Tiny, stifling the smirk that threatened. Tiny shrugged, the motion jarring Derringer and reminding him of his weakened state. He stumbled, drawing a laugh from Fraser D’Arcy.
Derringer focused his eyes on the man, willing himself to stand on his own. His black eyes narrowed. D’Arcy was stripped to the waist, flexing his upper body in anticipation.
The duke looked over the man’s sinewy torso and prayed he would be able to last long enough to give Tiny the opportunity to take care of the other men on deck. He had no hope of besting the man in the weakened state he currently suffered.
Captain Taverner stood off to one side, a blank expression on his face. Several sailors were laying bets. Derringer was relieved to note they were not any of his men. Martin and D’Arcy must have hired their own crew. What had become of his own men? Had they suffered the same fate as Gabriel? How had they gotten Captain Taverner over to their side?
Tiny let him stand and Derringer flexed his shoulders. He needed to focus, ready himself for the extreme pain he was about to experience. He met Tiny’s eye and the man nodded imperceptibly. All was set then.