A Pirate's Pleasure

by Heather Graham

  The Hawk liked young Crennan. He was a gentleman pirate, so they said, and hailed from a good family somewhere. Like the Hawk, he made money on his hostages, and disdained murder.

  “I say that this matter is well and done!” Crennan called out. He raised a pewter mug. “We all know the Silver Hawk. He laid claim to the Silver Messenger out of England, I know well, for I was here, in this very room, when he did so. He did not betray our articles of brotherhood! He fought a fair fight. I say, gents, that that is that!”

  “Here, here!” came a voice. It was Blackbeard, the Hawk saw. The man was a bloody cutthroat, but a strong ally nonetheless.

  Hawk turned to Anne Bonny. “Madame, I crave your opinion?”

  She smiled. Once, he thought, she had been a young thing. With dreams similar to those dreams that haunted other young maidens. He did not know what had drawn her here.

  “I saw, Captain, that you have presented yourself well. The matter is done, and the facts established.”

  “I thank you, Mistress Bonny!”

  He sat again. The proprietor made an appearance again, bringing wine and bread and more lamb to the table. “Hiding out lest there be trouble, eh, Ferguson?” the Hawk inquired, amused.

  “Captain Hawk, I tell you, the roof is thatch, since you fine sirs do continually see fit to duel and set fires. My tables are ramshackle, easily replaced. My hide, though tough, is not so easy to replace, and so, good sir, yes! I disappear at the slightest hint of trouble.”

  The Hawk laughed and poured more wine for Captain Stoker. “Ease up, Cap’n! The matter is settled now, and peacefully at that.”

  “Logan will not let it lie. Already, he seeks to carve your heart from your body, you know!”

  The Hawk waved a hand in the air. The musicians began to play again. A harlot shrieked with glee as a seaman poured a trickle of wine into the valley of her breasts. Laughter rose, and the night was made merry once again.

  The Hawk picked up a pewter goblet of wine. “He will simply never have a piece of me, Captain, you needn’t fear.”

  “I fear this warfare among us, for it will bring destruction down upon us.”

  Robert Arrowsmith glanced quickly at the Hawk. “How?” the Hawk asked with an easy smile. “Why, I hear tell that the governor of North Carolina is in league with a certain one of us! A man to be bribed, so they say. We, in this our Golden Age, shall reign forever.”

  Stoker shook his great head broodingly. He shrugged. “In the Carolina waters, perhaps, we find a certain safety. But in Virginia that damned Lieutenant Governor Spotswood seeks us out like bloodhounds!”

  “So they say.”

  Stoker smiled, finding some amusement in the matter. “He will have to intrude upon Carolina to destroy us, though, eh?”

  He started to laugh. The Hawk glanced at Robert, and then he started to laugh, too. He patted Stoker strongly upon the back. “Aye, Captain, he’ll have to do just such a thing!” He sobered. “Now, to business, sir. I need canvas, needles, coffee, and fresh meat. And rum. Can you see to it all?”

  Captain Stoker raised a hand, calling to one of his clerks. A little man hurried to them with an inkpot, quill, and paper, and sat down to take the orders.

  For the moment, peace and laughter reigned.

  It was not Robert who had been left aboard the ship to guard her. When she slammed upon the door, it was soon opened, but it was opened by a huge, burly Frenchman.

  “Mademoiselle!” he cried, looking at her warily. He was like Samson out of the Bible, she decided. He had a head of dark curls and warm brown eyes. His size was intimidating; his eyes were not.

  “Monsieur! Forgive me! I feel so ill of a sudden. I must have some air!”

  “Ah, but my lady! Sacrebleu! The captain would have my head. You are to remain here.”

  “Ooooh!” she started to moan, doubling over. “I feel so very ill, I must have air.…”

  “D’accord! I will take you out. Come, lean on me!”

  She offered him a sweet, pathetic smile and leaned heavily against him. He led her out to the deck. She inhaled deeply, gasping, bringing in air. This was easy. Much, much easier than she had imagined.

  He brought her to the railing. She leaned over, clinging to him, gulping for air. She also looked around herself. The ship was almost empty. She looked up. There was a man in the crow’s nest. She looked across the water. There were still men upon the dock. Someone was pointing their way. She felt a shiver seize her. Night was coming on quickly. Darkness was falling. Perhaps this plan of hers was not so well advised.

  She looked down. The ladder was still in place from the deck to the water, and a longboat waited there, tied in place should it be needed. The temptation was too great to be resisted.

  “Mademoiselle! Speak to me, are you better?”

  The Frenchman’s attention was entirely for her, and he was desperately worried. She felt a twinge of guilt, but ignored it. She sank down upon one of the barrels near the rail. “Oh, monsieur, I am much better, truly!” she said. He was by her side. She offered him a flashing smile, for it was then or never.

  She reached down and drew his cutlass quickly from the scabbard that laced around his waist. Before he could move, she had brought the point to his very chin.

  “Monsieur, forgive me, but I will be free this night!” she told him.

  “Mademoiselle!” he said, and he tried to move. She pressed the point against him, drawing blood, and he went still. “Now, come, sir!” she said softly. “We will take the longboat to shore. If you cross me, I will skewer you through. I will do so unhappily, for you appear to be too kind a man for this life you have chosen, but I swear that I will gladly slice you open, nonetheless.”

  He said nothing. She pressed her point still further.

  “Am I understood?”

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle—” the Frenchman began, but he broke off as the sound of an explosion suddenly burst through the night.

  Skye leaped to her feet, backing away from the Frenchman. There was a huge thud and she screamed as she saw that the sailor in the crow’s nest had fallen to the deck, his shirt crimson with the spill of his blood.

  “Mon Dieu—” the Frenchman said, ignoring her and spinning around to see from where death had sprung.

  A man was halfway over the railing. He tossed a still-smoking pistol to the deck and drew forth a second flintlock weapon, aiming it their way.

  He was a hideous soul, Skye thought, her heart hammering. He was dark and surly; a scar marred his right cheek. He wore a hat pulled low over his forehead, but it did not hide his eyes. They were pale and cold. He smiled, and his mouth seemed a black cavern, and his teeth looked awful and fetid. The leer gave him such a bearing of cruelty that she trembled.

  Then she saw his left hand, or the very lack thereof. A deadly-looking hook protruded from his coat sleeve.

  He aimed his pistol straight at the Frenchman. Without a sound or a word of warning, he fired.

  Skye screamed with horror as the Frenchman went down in a pool of blood. She stared at the fallen man, frozen.

  The hook-armed pirate crawled aboard. She had the Frenchman’s cutlass. She needed to lunge quickly and fight. She needed to make the attack. It was her only hope. She raised her sword.

  The hook-handed pirate looked past her, allowing his smile to deepen. “My pet, but you are sweeter than gold!” he said softly, and then he nodded.

  Skye swung around, but too late. She barely saw the man who had come up behind her. There was a blur, and then nothing more. She was struck upon the head, and the world faded as she fell. The last thing she saw was the blood seeping over the deck. Then it all went black.

  She heard the sound of waves lapping nearby. She became aware that she was rolling backward and forward herself, and that oars were striking against water. She opened her eyes. Darkness still surrounded her and she realized that she was wrapped in a suffocating, rough wool blanket. She struggled to free herself from its confines. The blanket fell
away and she faced the pirate with the hook again. He aimed his sword with deadly accuracy against her throat and she sat still, watching him. “So the Silver Hawk sought the Silver Messenger,” he mused. “I do wonder if you were the prize he sought all along. He was careless to let you be seen, my love. Very careless. Had Brice here not seen you peeking through the window, I’d never have thought to find you. And then, my dear, you came straight to the deck, making the whole thing so very easy for me. I do thank you.” Behind her, his accomplice continued to stroke the water with his oars. She said nothing, and he idly picked up a golden curl with the point of his sword. “My dear, I am so very pleased to have found you! Not only shall I have my opportunity to slay the Hawk now, but I shall enjoy you as I’m sure you can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “Over my dead body!” she whispered vehemently.

  He leaned toward her. “Yes, my dear, that is quite possible, too.”

  Skye quickly changed her tactics. “I’m worth a fortune. If you keep me safe and return me—”

  “I’m so sorry, my dear. This is vengeance, not finance. Brice! Row more quickly. I would not have the Hawk leave the Golden Hind before I can show him that I hold his prize.”

  He was deadly, Skye realized with a sinking heart. He was cold, as if no blood flowed through his veins.

  And he was revolting; from his fetid breath to his icy eyes, he made her skin crawl. She had sought to flee one knave only to stumble into the arms of a monster. Her teeth chattered.

  She wanted to die.

  She leaped to her feet suddenly, praying that the boat would tip. She could swim, but she would rather drown than go any further with the horrid monster who sat before her.

  “Grab her, Brice!” he roared, leaping to his feet. The longboat teetered precariously. It careened over.

  She pitched downward into the warm, aquamarine sea. They were almost to the dock. If she could just swim …

  But she could gather no speed, for her skirts were dragging her down.

  A hand grabbed her hair, tugging painfully. She screamed, and drew in water. Coughing and sputtering, she fought only to breathe. She was being dragged along through the water. Light wavered before her eyes. She was wrenched upon a wooden dock, surrounded by voices and kissed by the balmy warmth of the night. She closed her eyes and opened them.

  And stared into the evil glare of the hook-handed pirate.

  She spat at him, struggling to rise. He swore, and tossed a new blanket over her face. She was being smothered again, but she could still fight with her limbs, kicking and scratching.

  But she was dragged up and cast over his shoulder and held there forcibly.

  “Don’t fret, my dear. You will see blood run soon enough,” he promised her.

  They drank, they laughed, they ate. The whores flirted, and they laughed at their antics. A buxom blonde promised Hawk the finest night of his life, and he told her that her words were a challenge indeed, but all the while he was thinking of another woman. One who was young and fresh and radiant and possessed the most glorious eyes.

  And somehow she was able to touch him in a way he had never imagined. Touch him with her innocence, and yet evoke the most pagan and sensual thoughts that had ever come to plague him, to burn him. The whore whispered something, and he laughed. Then his laughter faded as the front doors to the establishment were suddenly cast wide open again.

  He leaped to his feet. The whore fell to the floor, ignored. His hand lay upon his sword hilt where it rested within its scabbard upon his hip.

  Logan had returned.

  And he wasn’t alone. He swaggered into the building, a blanket-draped, struggling figure held over his shoulder, his pistol raised in his free hand.

  “Hawk!” he called. “You say it’s just to seize one another’s prizes? Well, sir, I have seized one from you, and in honor of our late brother, One-Eyed Jack, I demand of the brotherhood that this prize shall be mine in your stead!”

  And with that, he cast his struggling bundle upon the floor, wrenching the blanket away.

  To the Hawk’s eternal horror, the Lady Skye Kinsdale appeared, scrambling frantically to her feet, pausing only when she saw the assemblage of rogues before her. Her hair was a tousled sunburst, damp and curling to her face and shoulders. Her gown was ragged, drenched, and torn, and her beautiful eyes were wide and brilliant with horror. She stood before them like a shimmering star in the horizon. Disheveled, she was still the lady, tall and straight, her pride radiating from her in the beautiful colors of life that separated her from the riffraff that filled the room. Her very beauty separated her from it all.

  She was, indeed, a prize.

  God in heaven, how in hell had she come to be there? the Hawk wondered in fury. He had to save her, he determined.

  Just so that he could throttle her himself!

  She spun to flee suddenly. Logan pushed her forward. Laughter broke out. A seaman rose to stop her when she lunged anew. And then another man rose, and another, and she was nearly encircled.

  It was time for him to step into it. She lunged anew, and he left his table. The next time she lunged, she fell to the floor at his feet. She was quick. She braced her palms against the floor to rise, then paused, seeing his boots.

  She looked up. Her eyes met his. She inhaled and gasped. He did not know if she trembled to see him, or if the dazzling liquid in her eyes was meant as a plea to save her. His heart leaped and careened to his stomach. They were in deadly danger now.

  She had betrayed him somehow. Despite his threats, his words of warning, she had betrayed him.

  He smiled icily. “Well, milady, do not say that you were not warned!” he whispered furiously. But there was no more that he could do then.

  Logan had drawn his cutlass, and was stepping toward him.

  VI

  Skye watched in deep dread as the Hawk stepped over her to meet the instant clash of Logan’s steel.

  With a gasp she swiftly rolled to avoid being trampled. She came up beneath a table, and with a certain, horrified fascination, she watched the fighting men.

  It was a fair fight; one well met. They might have engaged in a macabre dance, so graceful, yet so deadly, were their movements. Their left arms remaining behind their backs, they met and clashed, and parted again, their swords ripping the very air, so that it seemed the night itself whispered and cried. Cheers rose within the room, some claiming for Logan, some for the Hawk, and all of them urging on the fight with merriment and blood lust.

  The men broke apart. Logan jumped upon a table. Leaping into flight, the Hawk followed behind him. The table crashed to the floor. Wine and ale spilled freely and pewter clanked upon the floor. Skye’s hand fluttered to her throat, for she saw no movement. If he had died, then it seemed that she had best pray for death. What madness had brought her here? she wondered. But her thoughts were fleeting, for both men were upon their feet again. The duel was reengaged.

  A hand clamped upon her shoulder of a sudden. She choked upon a scream as she was dragged to her feet.

  She looked into the eyes of a man with thick dark hair, a stocky build, a sharp, cunning gaze, and the faint sign of pockmarks beneath the heavy growth of his beard. He wore a scarlet frockcoat with golden epaulets and fine soft mustard breeches. He hauled her up against him. She struggled fiercely, seeking to bite him. “Hold, lassie!” he warned her. “I’m not your enemy!” Swinging her before him, he called out to the fighting men. “Gents of the brotherhood! Cease this ghastly foray and listen! This fight is no longer over Jack, nor, I daresay, was it ever! Logan, you would have him dead. Hawk, you would have the woman. Let’s put a price on her head. That’s our business, is it not? Gaining riches? So what is she worth, gentlemen? In gold?”

  “Here, here!” someone else cried, laughing. “Is it open bidding, then? I’ll give a hundred pieces o’ eight, Spanish gold, the best o’ the lot!”

  “One-fifty!”

  “Two hundred!”

  “A thousand gold doubloons!�
�

  “A thousand!” It was the Hawk. He stared down the length of her, then looked to her captor. “Nothing that lies ’twixt a maiden’s thighs could come so dear!”

  “Dear me, and not hers!” chortled one of the whores, who waltzed by Skye, tweaking her cheek. Skye kicked her furiously. The woman screamed out, lunging toward her.

  “Cease!” the Hawk yelled, catching the whore. She turned to him with huge dark eyes and her painted features, a pretty thing despite her paint, young and buxom.

  “She kicked me, Hawk! Why, I’ll claw her eyes out, I will!”

  “She’s not that easy, Mary, trust me. And she is to be ransomed, so keep clear of her, eh?” Gently, he thrust the whore far from himself, and far away from Skye.

  “Is the bidding open again?” someone called.

  “Aye, and think on this. She’s a feisty piece of baggage!” the dark pirate called out.

  Skye stared about herself in dismay. The Hawk was lost to a clang of steel once again while the others were all having a rollicking good time discussing her life in terms of the highest sum. The pirate holding her had a cutlass at his waist. She eyed it as another bid rang out. She itched to get her fingers upon it!

  “A thousand! I’ve said a thousand! Someone top that, me friends!”

  Skye heard something like the roar of a furious lion, and she saw that the Silver Hawk had come to the center of the room again, staring at her and her new captor, Teach, as Hawk had called him. “She is not public property, Teach! I took the prize, the prize is mine, and I will slay every man jack here who attempts to tell me otherwise!”

  “What?” the pirate Teach said in dismay. “Why, I’d had in mind to bid upon this morsel meself! Can she be worth so very much then, Captain Hawk?”

  The Hawk’s eyes raked her with a careful disdain. Even there, before all others, the gaze seemed to strip her of her clothing, to lay her bare and naked before them all. A sizzle of mockery touched his eyes. “No woman is worth so much,” he said, “and this one screams like a banshee and lies like a log. The equipment is there, but alas, she lacks the talent to use it.”