by Patti Berg
He’d made too many enemies. Lost all his friends.
He laughed at the irony. Such is the life of a pirate, where the only friend he needed was a steady ship beneath his feet.
An armed galley like Satan’s Revenge. He had to get back to her, and suddenly he remembered what he had planned before falling to sleep.
Cautiously he peered over the top of the sand dune, hoping no one else had come to the island while he’d slept. Hoping, too, that the woman and child had retreated to the fortress to spend the night.
Across the beach he could see the vessel resting on her keel. She hadn’t been moved, there were no signs of anyone around, and the incoming tide rapidly approached her hull.
He smiled, knowing he’d soon be on the open sea, back on course once more.
Slipping away from his resting place, he crossed the deserted beach, keeping his ears and eyes attuned for any sign of trouble.
He neared the vessel. Her white surface glimmered in the moonlight seeping through the clouds. Hesitantly he touched her hull, marveling at the wondrous wood, sleek and smooth, like the jewels encrusting the hilt of his blade. Her mast was constructed of the same curious material, and her sails…by God! Her sails were extraordinary, made entirely of a fabric he could only liken to silk. The finest and richest of silks, like the bolts he’d taken off a merchantman bound for Spain.
He longed to test this small craft on the water. How easily he could envision the feel of her beneath his feet, the flap of her sails as they filled with wind, speeding her across the waves.
Water lapped against her side, at his ankles. Soon she’d right herself, or at least be deep enough in water that he could push her off the sand. And then he’d take her out to sea. He’d commandeered greater vessels in his time, like Satan’s Revenge, once the pride of the French East India Company. But no vessel except Satan’s Revenge ever gave him the satisfaction this small sailing boat did. She was a beauty, a ship you’d take out on a balmy spring day, with a bottle of wine and a willing lady.
For one moment he forgot about the boat and looked toward his stronghold. A woman and child rested there, a woman and child who’d be stranded if he took their vessel. He planned to send someone back for them, but his conscience stabbed at him, making him think of the fear they’d feel when they found their boat had disappeared.
He might be a pirate who consorted with some of the meanest scum God had inflicted upon the earth, but he still considered himself a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t leave helpless, defenseless women and children all alone.
He swept his fingers through his hair, turning back to look at the sea, at the water rapidly inching up his boots.
Bloody hell! He was a pirate, not a gentleman. He had to get off the island, he had to find his ship, and he had to capture Thomas Low.
The blasted wound to his head, the woman’s sensual body, not to mention her heaven-sent voice and a curly-haired child, had come too damn close to turning him soft. He couldn’t do a thing about his injury—it would have to heal on its own. But he could get away from the two people digging at his hardened heart, the two people who could cause him more trouble than an entire fleet of Her Majesty’s ships.
The woman and child were not his concern, and they were bloody well fortunate that he was going to send someone back for them.
Night droned on, the longest, fear-filled night Kate had ever lived through. No, that wasn’t true; there’d been that night she’d been awakened by a knock downstairs. The old grandfather clock had chimed one when she’d opened the etched glass door. Nikki had stood there, her face stricken, her police uniform streaked with blood. “Joe’s been shot,” she’d said. “Get Casey. We need to hurry.”
There’d been no time for sentiment, for Nikki to ease out the words. There’d been time only for Kate to imagine the worst as the siren roared and Nikki drove like hell to the hospital. She remembered the lieutenant and sergeant standing somber-faced outside the swinging doors that led to the operating room, and their words of encouragement: “He’ll be all right, Kate.”
She’d smiled faintly and pulled Casey close into her arms as she paced the stark white hospital hall that smelled of alcohol and pine cleaner.
Even now she could see the gurney being wheeled out of the room, could see the gray color of her husband’s face and the vast assortment of tubes in his nose and leading down his throat. She remembered the tear falling from her eye to his cheek, and someone pulling her away. She remembered the way Nikki’s lips quivered as she lightly touched Joe’s fingers with hands still covered with his blood.
And she remembered clutching Casey as they stood next to Joe in intensive care. “Don’t go away, Daddy,” she’d cried. “Please. Don’t leave me, Daddy.”
She’d been only four, much too young to lose the father she loved so dearly. But in spite of her pleas, Joe had left them. He’d said goodbye after dinner the night before. He’d kissed his daughter, swung her up in the air, and hugged her for the longest time before sending her off to her room to play. He’d grabbed the thermos of coffee Kate had made, brushed a quick kiss across her cheek, and rushed out the door. They’d argued that night. He’d wanted to go to the island the next day. For the first time—and the last—she’d told him she was tired of going to the island. She was tired of looking for a treasure that didn’t exist. She wanted to stay home and work on the house. She wanted him to patch the roof, to paint the faded trim. She’d wanted him to be less of a dreamer and more of a realist—because they were growing up; they weren’t kids anymore. But he’d only laughed. “There’s plenty of time to work on the house. Humor me, won’t you, Kate? We’ll pack a picnic. It’s going to be a beautiful day for a sail.”
And he was right. The sun and the bright blue sky had peeked through the blinds in his hospital room when morning came, and moments later Joe unconsciously took his last breath, and quit fighting to hang onto life.
Casey cried. Nikki put her head down on the pillow next to her brother and tears openly flowed down her cheeks. Lieutenant Ryan and hardboiled Sergeant Crichton crept into the room and wept.
Kate had stood against the wall, cradling Casey in her arms, and stared at it all, eyes dry, too stunned, too heartbroken to cry.
She reached up and wiped away the tears that now fell from her eyes, tears that had taken weeks to come after Joe had died. He’d been the love of her life, he’d been her dearest friend, and she hated the fact that memories of him were starting to slip away from her, when she was trying so hard to hold him close.
Oh, Joe, if you were here now, I wouldn’t be so afraid. I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering if a stranger was standing just outside the battered walls, looking through the window.
Watching me.
Watching Casey.
A shiver of fear raced through her, and she prayed for daylight to wash away the fear of another endless night.
Kate stretched, and the abrasive sand beneath her scratched at her skin. Overworked muscles cried out for rest, but they’d already gotten more than they deserved. She’d fallen asleep when she should have kept a vigilant watch all through the night. Still, morning had come and she was alive.
Rolling over, she reached to draw Casey into her arms, but her fingers touched only sand.
“Casey?” she called out, sure the child was somewhere near, but her daughter’s sweet voice never answered. The only sounds that came to her were the screams of gulls and the familiar grunts of pelicans diving offshore for food.
“Casey!”
Anger and fear rolled through her as she pushed up from the floor and rushed through the maze of ruins. This wasn’t the first time Casey had struck out on her own. She was headstrong and fearless—and that scared the hell out of Kate.
“Casey!”
She rushed toward the ocean.
“Casey!”
She ran between the clusters of palms, through puddles, and over the devastation left by the hurricane, at last reaching the wide, sandy beach, wher
e tiny footprints trailed toward the water, toward the sailboat—her sailboat—that was anchored not far from shore.
How had it gotten off the beach? Who had dropped the anchor?
Terror knotted in her throat. The answer was obvious: the stranger lurking on the island.
The one-eyed pirate with a scar on his face.
“Casey!”
It seemed as if it took forever for her to reach the water, and she prayed that Casey would peek out of the cabin, that blond curls would magically appear over the side of the boat and she’d hear her daughter’s voice calling back, “Hi, Mommy!” But she heard and saw nothing, only the birds overhead, the lap of salt water at her feet, the sailboat bobbing gently on the waves, and not too far up the strand, a set of boot prints headed inland. And the impression of a pair of tiny bare feet padding along behind.
“Avast, matey!”
Black Heart woke from a peace-filled sleep with the pressure of cold steel at his neck and the voice of an angel ringing through his ears. Holding his breath lest the steel pierce his skin, he cracked open his unpatched eyelid and saw Casey’s tiny hands struggling to hold the cutlass she’d stealthily stolen from his scabbard.
Bloody hell! If he’d known this was the thanks he’d get for thinking more about the woman and child than his own plans for revenge, he’d have sailed during the night instead of waiting for morning, when he could take the castaways with him. There was no doubt he’d lost his senses at the same time he’d lost his ship.
Now a wee bit of a thing with the cunning of a panther had taken him—reputedly the most illusive pirate to sail the seas—captive. He’d laugh, but he didn’t find his current situation humorous. If the blade slipped from the child’s fingers….
Damn! That was a possibility he didn’t want to consider.
Nervously he smiled and eased into a nonchalant conversation with his captor. “And a good day to you, Mistress Casey.”
“Don’t move. I don’t want you to disappear again.”
“’Tis not my intention to move, child. As you can see, I’m perfectly content to lie here on the sand.” At least until he could retrieve his cutlass. “Pray tell, is it your intention to skewer me with my own blade?”
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and the heavy sword trembled in her hands, making a zigzag pattern merely an inch above his neck.
“I don’t want you to go away. I want my mommy to see you.”
“And what of your father?” he asked. The woman had said he wouldn’t be coming, that they were all alone, but he had to be sure. “Is he on the island?”
“My Daddy’s dead!”
God forbid, he hadn’t wanted or expected to hear those words.
“I’m sorry.”
“I heard Mommy tell my Aunt Evie that the man who killed him went to hell.”
“A more fitting place was never created for murderers.” ’Twas just the place he wanted to send Thomas Low.
Slowly he raised a hand and touched his index finger to the broad side of the blade, but Casey held the sword firmly in place.
“Is it your belief that I should be in hell, too?” he asked.
“Are you a murderer?”
“What do you think?”
“You don’t look too mean.”
“Ah, but looks are often deceiving. After all, who would ever expect a pretty little girl like you to take me captive? Why, even I find it difficult to believe that you could have stolen my cutlass while I slept.”
“It was easy. You were snoring.”
“I have been accused of much in my life, but never that. I did not wake your mother, did I?”
“Casey!”
The child jumped as her mother’s voice rang through the air, and the tip of the blade grazed his skin.
He gritted his teeth at the sudden pain. Only a scratch, he assured himself. He’d experienced much worse, but he could still feel the sting of the open wound, could feel a trickle of blood running down his neck.
Tears sprang from the child’s eyes as she gaped at the cut. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she cried, shaking her head right along with the cutlass. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Give me the cutlass, Casey,” he said softly but firmly, stretching out his hand.
“But you’ll go away.”
“Nay,” he said, with more calm than he felt. “I give you my word. I will not go anywhere without you and your mother.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Reluctantly Casey stepped back, and Black Heart pushed up from the ground, taking the jeweled hilt from the child’s hands.
“Casey!”
In the span of a heartbeat, Black Heart watched the woman emerge from behind a wall of cypress and palm and saw her eyes widen in fear, then narrow in rage. She streaked across the sand and dived into his chest with the full force of her body, knocking both of them to the ground.
The cutlass slid from his fingers as the woman threw a fist toward his face. He turned his head just in time to keep her from connecting with his nose, but felt her knuckles slam into his temple, the same place he’d taken the blow on Satan’s Revenge.
What godforsaken thing have I done to deserve the wrath of the child, and now the woman? he wondered. Bloody hell, he should have left without them, but he’d let an ounce of long-forgotten compassion work its way out of his stone-cold heart.
Somehow he found the strength to fight back, but it was difficult, given the fact that the woman had straddled his stomach and was alternately beating his chest and slapping his face. If she wasn’t such a firebrand, he might take pleasure in admiring the view of her breasts swaying with each stroke to his body.
There was no time for admiration, though—not while she had the upper hand. He had to gain control. In one swift move he wrapped an arm around her slender waist and rolled her to the sand, laughing at the anger in her flaming green eyes.
“Take your hands off of me or I’ll…I’ll….”
He never saw her move, never felt the jerk of her knee until it hit his groin, not quite on center, but close enough. Pain ripped through him, and another bout of godforsaken nausea, but still he kept his hold on her arms and pressed the length of his body against hers so she couldn’t move again.
“Damnation, woman!” he groaned through gritted teeth. “Do you mean to unman me?”
“I mean to kill you,” she spat out, the force and truth of her words hitting him square in the face.
“What did you do to my daughter?”
“I have done nothing to the child.”
“You were pointing a sword at her. She was crying.”
The woman struggled, but he was twice her size, making it impossible for her to escape. He refused to let her go until she saw reason—or at least, realized that the blood from his neck was dripping onto her chest.
“Get off me,” she moaned, but all he did was move closer, looking at her eye to eye.
“Give me one good reason.”
The child screamed, and that was reason enough.
Black Heart spun around to see Casey holding the cutlass again, and his only thought was that she’d injured herself on the blade.
Dear God, let her be unharmed, he silently prayed.
Shoving away from the hellish woman, he quickly, carefully retrieved the cutlass from Casey’s hands and stuck it into its scabbard.
The girl screamed again, and giant tears flowed from her big, bright blue eyes.
Bloody hell!
“Stop crying!” he demanded in frustration, then swept the child up into his arms and smoothed a curly strand of hair from her tear-dampened cheek.
Half a moment later, the she-devil lunged at his back. “Get your filthy hands off my daughter!”
She clawed his skin, and he could feel her nails through his coat and the linen of his shirt.
“Stop it, woman,” he yelled, holding onto the girl with one arm, trying to pull the mother’s fingers from his neck with the other. “’Tis not
my intention to harm the child.”
“Then let her go.”
He could see the child’s lips puckering as she looked at her mother over his shoulder. “Mommy, I hurt…I hurt….”
“Let her go, damn you!” the woman screamed, striking him once more in the temple.
“Blast it, wench! ’Tis me who is injured, not the child.”
He whipped around quickly, unbalancing the woman as he moved. Her hands ripped free from his clothes, and he watched with a grin as she stumbled backward and landed on her backside in the sand.
“Damn you!” she sputtered, scrambling up from the ground.
Without thought, he drew his cutlass and held her off. “Stand back, woman. I mean the child no harm. And if you will keep your infernal hands off me, I’ll not harm you, either.”
“You’ve already hurt her. She’s bleeding, can’t you see?”
“’Tis me who’s bleeding!” he bellowed, wondering when his words would penetrate her skull. “She sliced my throat, and I do believe she came damn near to cutting off my head.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I was only playing,” Casey cried. “You have to fix the cut. Please.”
The woman stared at him for the longest time with pursed lips and angry eyes. Her gaze traveled to his neck, to the child, and to the blade he was holding between them.
Slowly he sheathed the cutlass. He’d never drawn a blade on a woman before. But he’d never met a woman from whom he’d had to protect himself.
She stepped forward, yanked Casey from his arms, and set the child firmly on the ground, then moved protectively in front of her. He could see her fists clench at her sides. Her stern face was frozen like the figurehead on one of Her Majesty’s ships. God, but she was beautiful—in spite of her anger.