Her hands curled around something warm.
“Think you’re going somewhere, do you?”
Before she could answer the blade arced toward her. Grace screamed, the force if it searing her already raw throat. She curved her body away from the weapon but the blade drove through her skin as another round of shots tossed the ship hard to its starboard side. Grace fell amid the debris, the chaos. The blood.
Her blood.
*
Standing on the quarterdeck of his sloop, wheel firmly in hand and wind slashing through his dark hair and beard, Sam Steele braced his long legs and called for another round of guns.
He didn’t think of himself as Cale Hunter any more, hadn’t since he’d assumed the role of Steele four years ago. It was simpler to be the fearsome pirate. Steele didn’t have any worries other than his ship and crew. Steele wasn’t mired in memories and a lingering guilt, which refused to wane despite the passage of time.
“She’s coming about!” Aidan shouted. While Steele usually referred to his first mate as a boy, though he was in his twentieth year, he couldn’t deny Aidan was a born sailor.
Steele watched the barque begin its turn. She was a bigger ship, three-masted as opposed to his sloop’s one, but she was heavier and it would take her longer to turn.
“Prepare to jibe.”
“Prepare to jibe!” Aidan called as he leapt off the quarterdeck, the tails of the black bandana he wore over his blonde hair fluttered behind him.
Unlike the barque, which was heading into the wind bow first, his maneuver would take them through stern first. It was a trickier move and it wasn’t near as smooth as a come about, not to mention it could do damage to the sails and the rigging, but Steele preferred it. The challenge got his blood pumping.
The sea crashed around them, shooting saltwater up and over the gunwale. Steele tasted the brine on his lips, smelled it in the air. He watched, heart rate accelerating as Aidan and the crew tightened the mainsheet. It would help control the boom during the jibe. He looked further to the bow, ensured there were men handling the jib sheet.
Bracing his feet even further apart, he called, “Jibe, ho!” and turned the sloop across the wind.
The jib was blown backward and the boom and mainsail swung fast across the deck. Men ducked, lest they be caught and thrown into the turbulent sea.
“Hurry with the jibs!” he shouted as one was hauled in while another was released.
Hands moved quickly and effectively. Aidan let out the mainsheet and trimmed the mainsail for the new heading. They’d accomplished their turn and the barque was still in mid-process.
“Fire the guns!” Steele shouted before the other ship could come across for a full broadside.
The sloop shuddered and recoiled as its starboard guns blasted the other ship.
“Swivel guns!” he yelled and the smaller guns mounted at the bow and stern roared.
Every shot that plunged into the belly of the other ship brought Steele a grim sense of satisfaction. His sloop might be outgunned and outmanned but it was unmatched in crew and agility. Still, theirs wasn’t the only ship with swivel guns.
“Watch yourselves,” Steele hollered, though he doubted he was heard over the shot blasting from the other ship.
The cannonball tore through the gunwale, shook the deck below his feet. The next missed, but the whistle of it as it flew past set his teeth.
“Aidan!”
“Captain?” Aidan called.
Down the deck, Aidan already had a hand and foot on the rigging. He had a bow in one hand, two muskets in the other and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. Neither Steele nor Aidan were foolish enough to rely on arrows alone, not when every other miscreant carried blunderbusses, muskets, and pistols, but those took time to reload. And so, while Aidan also had muskets, once his shots were spent he turned to his arrows. He was bloody fast and accurate with those.
“Get up there.” Steele pointed. “And don’t come down until you’re out of shots and arrows.”
Aidan was halfway up the rigging before Steele’s orders were fully given.
The barque, in a better position now, let her guns loose.
Screams plunged into his head as they always did, and echoed louder than any cannon fire. He could handle the battle, never turned away from a fight, but the agonized cries of his men were one of the few things that bit into his soul.
Because every time he heard one, Cale Hunter broke through Steele’s defenses and taunted him. Are you going to fail to protect them as well?
Steel tossed his head. Cale and his damned guilt had no business on the Revenge. He yanked the wheel, and the sheets snapped and strained.
“Reload the guns. We’re bringing the wench down.”
With a single-minded purpose, Steele handled his ship, evaded as best he could, and showed no mercy in countering every attack that blew into the Revenge. He came at them hard from the cannons and, once closer, the muskets and Aidan’s razor-sharp arrows. Sweat slid down Steele’s back but he kept at them, pushing his men to the point of exhaustion.
His sails were peppered with holes from the pistols and muskets and the mainsheet had a gaping tear where a cannon ball had ripped through. Arrows protruded from the deck and gunwale. Their opponent’s archer wasn’t much of a threat, but the man handling the swivel guns was. With a blunderbuss in hand, Steele extended his left arm, aimed down the barrel and fired. The recoil hadn’t finished when a musket shot blew into the poop deck behind him.
“Goddammit!” He dropped, exchanged weapons from the ones at his feet. Grabbing a pistol he peered over the wheel.
The man on the other ship’s swivel gun was no longer standing but another was scrambling through the smoke and flying debris to replace him at the bow. Steele came up, hand steady, and ensured he wouldn’t be fired upon again.
“They’re dropping the longboat on the starboard side!” Aidan yelled from his perch in the rigging.
Since they were hammering the barque’s port side, Steele hadn’t noticed. And, in truth, he didn’t care who got away. The devil could have their crew for all he cared, so long as he got the spoils of the ship and none of them tried to stop him. If they did, they’d die for their troubles.
With Aidan hurling arrow after arrow, each amazingly accurate, and the rest of his men firing grenados, stinkpots, and any weapon they could get their hands on, Steele kept the guns belching. He didn’t let up until the masts on the other ship were shattered and poked through the fallen sails like broken bones protruding from skin.
With no means of escape, it wasn’t much longer before a sailor, oozing blood from his temple, staggered to the gunwale of the listing ship and waved the white flag. Only then did Steele allow himself to breathe.
“Hold fire!” Steele shouted. He called for the sails to be brought in. “Aidan, shoot anything that moves,” he said, calling up to his first mate, who had yet to climb down to the deck.
With the guns quiet, Steele could once again hear. The slap of the water seemed especially loud as it smacked the ship and spat upward. Seawater dripped from his beard.
Seeing Smoky nearby, Steele called him over. “Take the wheel.”
Smoky, who was only ever seen without a cigar hanging from his mouth when he was asleep or eating, stepped over shards of wood, jumped over a large hole in the deck and took the steps to the quarterdeck. Not only did the man love his cigars, he resembled one as well. Stocky and thick, his arms were like sausages and his legs were sturdy as tree trunks. Smoky and Aidan shared the same fair hair, a complete opposite to their captain, whose hair was black as pitch and whose eyes, he was told, were blue as ice.
“Keep her steady. I’ll ready a party to go over.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Steele reloaded his pistol and ensured he had plenty of extra shots as well as two dirks and a sword. He chose a fistful of men and waited for the grapple hooks to be thrown over. The churning sea made lowering a plank impossible, so they used
ropes and swung over onto the barque.
The deck of the other ship appeared as something a dog had chewed and spat out. Twisted and torn sails lay ravished among the clutter of timbers which used to be the mainmast. Two-dozen men stood motionless, their hands in the air, their countenance distrustful. He didn’t blame them; he’d be leery in their position as well.
“Gather and secure the prisoners.”
Wounded sailors shuffled and limped as they were herded toward the bow. They were tied to the base of the fore and mizzenmast while Steele kept a wary eye to ensure knives weren’t pulled from sashes or boots.
“Check the injured,” he said once the others were secured.
Because it was a plot he’d seen—and used—too often not to be guarded, he waited until the men lying bleeding amidst the devastation were accounted for.
“Dead.”
“Dead, Captain.”
Only when all had been checked—fifteen corpses in total—and the threat above deck was gone, did he lower his pistol and step to the gunwale. The fog remained thick. Even so, he saw the longboat fade into the gray as it made its escape. Counting the shadows, three men had escaped. He didn’t give them another moment’s thought.
Maneuvering through the wreckage, Steele made his way to where the main hatch should be. It was completely hidden underneath the thick heavy canvas that had once been the foresail. He tucked his pistol into his waist. His men, seeing what needed to be done, stepped to help. Other than some heaving and grunting, the task was accomplished without sound.
With the hatch now accessible, Steele nodded. Two of his crew lifted the access while their captain once again ensured his pistol was at the ready. With the weapon firmly in his palm, he signaled his men to follow him down.
The hold was equally as battered as what they’d seen above decks. Holes in the hull let in sickly light, allowing them to see without benefit of lanterns. The walls of the hold had been decimated and barrels which had once been secured now bobbed and rolled on the water covering Steele’s boots. The smell of burned gunpowder and seared flesh shoved its way to the back of Steele’s throat. A few cadavers floated in the brackish water, their skin unusually pale in the dim light. But there was too much clutter; too many dark shadows to be certain if there were any survivors. With weapons in hand, they fanned out.
Wet air crept through the gun ports. The smell of death, the silence—other than the water splashing as he and his men walked through it—added an eeriness to the scene. Normally, Steele didn’t pay much heed to that sort of rubbish. If he found a ship, he plundered it, sank it, and moved on. Yet, as he walked around the barrels, as he poked the floating bodies with his boot, he couldn’t escape the uneasiness sliding around his mouth like soured wine. Glancing behind him, he saw nothing but the three men he’d brought along doing the same thing he was. Turning round, he noticed the brig ahead, its door gaping open. It didn’t mean a prisoner was loose. He had no way of knowing whether they’d even had a prisoner. But Steele wasn’t taking any chances. His finger curled a little tighter on the trigger. Inching toward the door of the cell, he raised his weapon.
And heard someone humming behind him.
He whipped around, dropped into a crouch and aimed the pistol. He’d expected a ragged sailor, a no-good pirate clinging to what was left of his sorry, wretched life. He’d never expected this.
The gun went slack in his palm. Holy Mother of God.
Chapter Two
“Help me,” she said, her voice croaking as she reached out a blood-soaked hand. “I don’t want to die.”
Cale hadn’t had to bear witness to his wife bleeding. In fact, when he’d come home fifteen years earlier to find his wife and son gone, he’d had no way of knowing if the blood smeared onto the floor was Catherine’s or Caden’s. It hadn’t stopped him, however, from envisioning the worst over the years and while the visions never happened in battle, he’d never come upon a bleeding woman in one before.
Surely that had to be why an image of a lifeless and beaten Catherine formed so vividly in his mind. There was no other explanation as it was the only similarity he could see between this woman, whose hair was as black as his own, and Catherine, who’d been as fair as their son. Where Catherine had been a mother and wife, this one, with her plunging bodice, appeared to be no more than a common whore. But for the moment, trollop or not, she was alive.
It was up to him if she were to stay that way.
“Please,” she begged from where she lay slumped against the bulkhead. “I beg you, help me.”
Her accent, despite the rawness of her voice, was unmistakably Irish. Her hair hung in wet strands over her shoulders. Her face was pale and bore the marks of a blooming bruise on her cheek while an angry red mark slashed across her neck. He saw no life-threatening injuries and no reason for the blood on her hand until his eyes fell lower to the crimson stain on the right side of her stomach. She pressed both hands to the wound, whimpering as she did. Despite her attempts to stanch the flow, blood seeped continuously through her fingers.
“No survivors down here, Captain.”
“I’ve got one here.” He called over his shoulder, already knowing what he was going to do.
Stomach wounds were often deadly and time was of the essence. He needed to get her aboard his ship and in front of Jacques, his ship’s doctor, as soon as possible. If she died because of her injury, so be it, but she wouldn’t die because he refused to help. Securing his pistol into his waistband, he stepped to her side.
She shrunk back as he neared.
He hesitated. “You wanted help, did you not?”
She nodded but the wariness remained. Given her situation, and the way her eyes darted to his pistol, he couldn’t blame her.
“I’ll help you.” It was more than he’d been able to do for his wife. Snarling, he slammed the door on Cale and his blasted memories. It had been fifteen years for the love of God. When would this godforsaken guilt ever ease?
He knelt and she flinched, her whole body shuddered.
Dammit, he hated to think what she’d been through to react in such a way.
“I won’t hurt you”—he hurried to reassure—“but we need to move.” Then, ignoring her reactions, he lifted her into his arms.
Despite sodden clothing, she weighed next to nothing. He turned, saw the surprise on his crewmen’s faces. They said nothing, however, as he splashed loudly and headed for the stairs.
“Gather weapons, supplies, anything you can,” he said as he passed them. “I’m going back to the Revenge.”
He gave the identical order above deck. They were to take the bounty, salvage anything useful and once it was on board the Revenge, they were to light the other ship afire. He was always well out of range when the flames reached the powder room and the ship blew to pieces.
“And the prisoners?” Smoky asked.
He felt the stare of the captives latching onto his coat with desperate hope. Since he hadn’t seen the captain of this vessel among either the dead or those tied to the remaining masts, he assumed the man had made his escape in the longboat. A crew without a captain was always much easier to bring to heel.
Despite the unusual circumstance of having a woman in his arms, Steele gave the usual orders. Once the other ship was picked clean the prisoners were to be cut loose. They could go down with the ship he intended to burn or they could jump and take their chances swimming. It didn’t matter which to Steele.
He killed to protect himself and his crew. But he wouldn’t slaughter unarmed men. He wouldn’t have that kind of blood on his hands.
Not when he already had more than enough innocent blood on his hands.
His wife’s and his son’s.
*
Feeling someone watching her, Grace came awake with a start.
She recognized the bearded man leaning over her as the man who’d agreed to help her and who’d taken her from Roche’s ship, tossed over his shoulder as he’d swung over to his own. It was the last
thing she remembered.
What had he done to her? While she remained dressed, she was very aware she was lying in a bed, likely in his cabin, and he’d yet to tell her what he was doing looming over her.
Roche was a fierce opponent. If she were here, it meant Roche had lost the battle, which meant this man was even more dangerous.
She scrambled back. Pain bit into her side and she winced.
“Stop it.” His voice was rough as rocks under a carriage. He grabbed her shoulders. “You’ll reopen the sutures.”
The breadth of his shoulders was much wider than Roche’s. His grip, equally as strong, pressed her shoulders into the mattress. The silence in the cabin revealed all she needed to know; there was nobody around to help her. Despair threatened to wash over her. Had she simply escaped one prison to land herself in another? Frustration and hopelessness threatened to consume her but she willed them back. She would escape. Her eyes darted about the cabin looking for a weapon, hoping to find a way.
“Don’t bother constructing a plan of escape. You’ve nothing to fear on this ship.”
She’d be a fool to take him at his word but, rather than argue and risk antagonizing him, she kept her thoughts to herself.
“You don’t believe me,” he stated.
“No, as you’ve yet to release me.”
He raised his hands, stepped away from the berth. Grace drew a deep breath and felt her fear recede.
“Why would I bother saving you and seeing your wound tended if I wanted to hurt you?”
’Twas sound reasoning but perhaps he’d only helped her as he intended to use her the way Roche had. Grace pulled the blanket to her chin. A bolt of pain pierced where Roche had stabbed her and she gasped.
Her captor sighed, a heavy one filled with impatience. “I told you to settle down, did I not? You’ve a nasty gash and it doesn’t need to be reopened.”
A nasty gash, as though she’d fallen and scraped her knee rather than being almost being murdered. If Roche had had his way he’d have killed her and—
Her hands pressed against her belly, lightly this time. “Did you—” she swallowed. “Was it you who closed the wound?”
Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance Page 2