The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  As she made to rise and continue to flee, the man appeared. He’d dismounted somewhere behind them and followed her on foot. He was performing a controlled slide down the embankment she’d fallen down and was coming right for her.

  She turned, a scream escaping her throat as she felt a hand grab hold of the back of her shirt. The thin fabric tore away from her skin, leaving her back bared to his gaze. She stumbled forward, trying to gain her footing on the rocky creek bottom. But, again, the hand was there, tearing at her, this time it grabbed hold of her hair, which had come loose from the braided wreath she had tucked under the knit cap. She must have lost the cap during the fall down the embankment.

  The man tugged and another scream broke loose from her throat.

  “Stop running!” the man growled, pulling her by her hair until her naked back was pressed against him. Before she could try to break away, his arms were there, wrapped around her, holding her in place. The shirt she was wearing now hung around her wrists in scraps. She kicked back, aiming for his knees, but he must have anticipated that because she missed. With a powerful shove, he threw her against the creek bank, and she landed in the mud with a grunt. Pain shot up her arms. Essa looked over her shoulder to see the man staring at her…his eyes hooded as he approached, slowly, like a wolf bearing down on its wounded prey.

  No! I am not prey!

  Essa pushed up but her hands slipped in the mud. She attempted to crawl away, desperation making her hazy. Hands grabbed hold of her ankles, pulling her back, and she slid through the mud, back toward him. Her shirt was now completely gone, the pieces dragged from her arms to lay limply on the creek bank.

  “Now, now, boy,” he sneered. “You cannot get away that easily.”

  She didn’t know if it was his tone or the threat in his words that did it, but something within her snapped. Pushing up on one side, she flipped herself over, bringing her knees up to drive her boot heels into the man’s belly. They connected, the man doubling over with a loud grunt. But that didn’t last long. In a blink, the man was holding a sabre, the sharp edge glinting in the morning sunlight.

  Essa’s gaze flew to the man’s face. Twin green eyes, the most stunning shade, peered down her. At her chest. She followed his glare. The linen she’d wrapped around her breasts was soaked through, revealing her femininity to his gaze, her nipples like dark pink pebbles pointing toward the sky.

  Her breath caught, her blood roaring in her ears.

  The man growled, the sound of a beast having run his quarry to ground…preparing to feast.

  “Come now, Señorita. I think there are more secrets you are keeping from me.” She watched as the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen curled into a wicked, wolfish grin. “And I aim to know them all. Every. Single. One.”

  Chapter Three

  His chest tight from the exertion of the chase, Saban wasn’t sure if what he was seeing wasn’t caused by delirium.

  Breasts. Beautiful, perky, dusky-nippled breasts. The most perfect breasts he’d ever seen, and they weren’t even bare to his gaze, they were wrapped in some sort of torture device. Bands of wet linen molded to not only the breasts but also the narrow waist…which led down to curvy hips encased in wet black leather.

  His cock throbbed at the delectable buffet of flesh before him.

  Her gasp made him look up at her face—he had thought her feminine looking, back when she was unconscious on the beach. And now he knew why. Her long, black eyelashes curled up, framing wide eyes of deep, rich brown. Her cheeks were high which drew her mouth up into a lush, pouty bow. Her nose was straight, narrow, ending on an upturned tip and slightly wide nostrils. Her skin was like perfectly-baked speckled bread, golden brown and begging for his mouth.

  A burst of heat in his belly told him that he was hungry, but not for speckled bread.

  Saban didn’t know what the hell to think. The Demonios he had captured the night before and then pursued into the creek was a goddamn woman!

  Hell!

  Sheathing his sabre, he crossed his arms and stared down at her, careful to meet her gaze and not leer at her breasts. She was his captive, dammit. He couldn’t treat her as he would any willing wench in Port Eynon.

  “Stand up,” he commanded, watching her expression for comprehension. When she only stared back, her lips pulling in a thin line, he knew she understood him. She was just choosing to ignore his order. “I said, stand up, Señorita, or I will drag you back the way you came…tied to my horse.” He lifted his upper lip, revealing the sharp fang he knew was there. His cousin, Lucia, Lucian’s twin sister, often compared him to a ravaging wolf, all teeth and claws and an insatiable appetite for blood. It was true in most cases but, in that moment, all he wanted to do was run his tongue along the señorita’s neck and see if she tasted as good as she appeared.

  The woman began spouting rapid Spanish, waving her left hand in a manner that suggested he bugger himself with this sabre.

  Fire. She was all fire in a delicious package.

  Oh, I will enjoy breaking this one.

  “Your choice!” he ground out, reaching down to grab her by the ankles. She tried kicking at him again, but he moved easily out of the way. Turning, holding her ankles behind his back, he began walking back up the embankment.

  “No!” came a scream from behind him. “You will cut me to ribbons on those rocks, Pendejo!”

  Stopping mid-stride, he looked down at her from over his shoulder.

  “I can assume that pretty word is not an expression of adoration,” he drawled.

  A flush turned her face deep pink and he chuckled.

  “I assumed correctly.” He turned back and began walking again. “Since that is the case, I will keep on as I was…until you apologize.”

  Another flurry of Spanish before she growled. “Lo siento,” she muttered, wiggling enough that her ankles rubbed against the palm of his hands. He stopped again, smiling back at her.

  “That’s better, Señorita,” he drawled. “Now, will you get up and walk like a good girl, or do I need to throw you over my shoulder and carry you back? I promise you, for every step I take with you over my shoulder, I will take it out of your hide.” This time, the smile he flashed was mercenary. It was the smile he gave his enemies just before he claimed their lives.

  The woman’s face grew several shades darker, the blush one of anger—if the glittering hatred in her eyes was any indication. Let her hate him, it was better that way.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, flinching. With a slight whimper, she cupped her right wrist, holding it to her chest. Pity…she was covering the best view for miles.

  “Injured?” he asked, immediately regretting it. What did it matter if she were injured? She was not his to worry over, doting on her like a man would his woman.

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she tucked her chin into her chest and glared at him.

  He shrugged, uncaring. “You do not need two good hands to walk.” Crouching, he leaned forward until his face was close enough for him to smell the muck on her clothes. “You get up, you walk, I do not kill you…understand?” His tone brooked no arguments or sassy retorts. He sneered down at her, letting the rage he felt for her kind—the Demonios—show through his expression. “Hell…I just might kill you anyway.”

  Slowly, deliberately pulling his sabre from his sheath, he brandished it, grinning.

  “Now, are you going to stand and walk or am I going to drag you the whole way?” he asked, nearly licking the length of the blade for effect but stopped short at the look of horrified curiosity in her eyes.

  Interesting…

  He helped the woman to her feet. She stumbled once but recovered quickly, her tongue lashing him in her native language.

  One day, I will have to learn Spanish. What better way to know what my enemy is planning? If he knew the language, it would save him from having to go through intermediaries when one-on-one inquisitions were far more effective.

  “Come along, Ceinder, there is a cha
ir waiting for you.” He’d called her “beauty”. The word was somehow not enough, but he refused to think on why he spoke the word at all.

  She is the enemy. He wouldn’t let his cock determine his life or death.

  Step by step, they made their way up the embankment, his hand tight around her upper arm and his other hand still brandishing his sabre, the threat real and raw. She walked slowly, allowing him to lead her but also showing just enough of her rebellion.

  He wanted to laugh. She was flame concealed in ill-fitting clothes. He just stopped himself from turning around and purposefully peering at her breasts, which were on display despite the ridiculous linen wrap.

  Now that he’d had a moment to think, the wrapping of the breasts was something his cousins, Lucia and Rose, had employed when preparing to raid enemy ships. According to them, their breasts got in the way of swinging a sword. He wanted to snort in disagreement. If any man saw their breasts, they wouldn’t have to swing their swords, the men would fall at their feet, felled by the loveliness of their bosoms—not that he looked at his own cousins’ breasts. It was the principle of the thing; beautiful women, beautiful breasts, helpless men. It was a simple conclusion.

  Stop thinking about breasts!

  Biting back a curse at his own lack of focus, he led his prisoner toward Ceyffel, his faithful steed—far more faithful than any of the women he’d bedded.

  You did not want faithfulness, you wanted to tup and forget your troubles.

  Refusing to continue that thought to its conclusion, he took Ceyffel’s reins in his hands and began leading the company back toward the cottage, which was more than eight yards away.

  When the woman remained silent, he wondered if she had hit her head on her way down the embankment. It wasn’t like a woman in pain to not complain—the exception being his female cousins, who appreciated pain as much as the next man. The woman beside him was still cradling her wrist against her chest, but she was biting her lip to keep from whimpering.

  Aye, she was hurt and it would take some doing to secure her without worsening her injury.

  Is that not what you want? Her in misery while you peel away her secrets? Damn. It wasn’t her secrets he wanted to peel away, and that was a problem.

  His cock pulsed.

  It was a growing problem.

  At the cottage door, he tied off Ceyffel on the tie hook beside it, and pushed the captive through the opening. She stumbled but recovered.

  There is that spirit again…

  Blocking her only way of escape, he crossed his arms, watching her as she took in her surroundings. Slowly, she examined the room, her eyes darting about, probably looking for something to use as a weapon. She’d find nothing.

  Finally, her focus landed on the wall right behind where her chair was, facing the door. There was a small iron hoop secured to the wall, and there was a thick iron chain threaded through it.

  He hadn’t used the chain to secure her before because—he was man enough to admit—he had overestimated his rope tying skills and underestimated her skill at untying ropes. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Moving forward, he herded her toward the back wall. She turned toward him, her rich brown eyes wide, her mouth parted by her frantic breaths. Aye, she realized what he meant to do. Once she was chained up proper, there would be no escape for her.

  He fought and lost the urge to smile at her fear.

  “Come now, Ceinder, you knew this was coming…I cannot let you escape me again,” he drawled, taking another step closer to her. She looked like a frantic rabbit, cornered in its warren. She might strike out at him, attempt to claw out his eyes with her good hand, but she would only succeed in tiring herself out further. He knew that after her run and subsequent fall, she was exhausted—the way her shoulders slumped and her legs shook told him that much.

  It was only a matter of time before she succumbed to him. And he found the anticipation thrilling. It was a new sensation, that thrill, the excitement of waiting for another person to fall prey to him. No…not just another person, this person. This woman. The Demonios with perfect breasts and flashing eyes.

  He liked her.

  Because he was watching her and alert as he was, he could see her gaze fly to the door behind him. She was mentally calculating how far she could get before he caught her again, and probably ignoring the risks she would take trying to get past him in the first place. Compared to her, he was a beast; well over six feet, shoulders broad enough to scrape both sides of a door at once, and made of pure muscle. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his frame, and he was proud of it. When he wasn’t lifting barrels and crates, he was riding Ceyffel, swimming the lagoon in Dwyn Twll, or sparing with his men or cousins. He was built for battle, born for besting other men…and for pleasuring women.

  Drawn to her, his gaze dropped to her chest which was rising and falling rapidly. Those breasts had been spectacular, but that wasn’t the only thing about her that made his cock hard. She was small, no higher than his collarbone, but she was muscular—her limbs made of taut muscles. He could see the black leather breeches mold themselves to her legs. Her thighs were strong, just the right amount of thickness and strength. It was no wonder she ran so fast and kicked so damned hard. Unthinkingly, he raised his hand to rub at his belly where her kick had landed back at the creek. Her lithe movements and stunning reflexes had surprised him, but he would not be surprised again. He knew what she was capable of now, and he wouldn’t let the dangerous beauty out of his sight again.

  “Sit.” His command was thick, his voice booming.

  She flinched, her eyes widening then narrowing. Her dark eyebrows furrowing over glittering eyes. Damn, she was fierce.

  “No,” she spat. “I will not be your prisoner.” She straightened, dropping her wounded wrist to her side. To her credit, she tried not to let the pain show, but her face paled. She bit her bottom lip, her tiny white teeth worrying the plumpness there.

  Wary, weary, and just plain frustrated, Saban stalked to her, aware she was poised for another chance to escape. Before she could move away from him, he reached out, snagging the arm attached to the wounded wrist. She squealed but stopped moving, her body tense and shaking.

  “You are my prisoner. You tried to ambush my men, you wounded my mates, and you sail under the flag made of the skins of your victims, dyed in the blood of enemies.”

  “You lie!” she screamed then attempted to wrench her arm free. She screamed again, this time in pain. Her legs collapsed beneath her. Watching as if the world had slowed to a crawl, Saban saw her knees buckle, her face lose all color, and her mouth open on another scream as she fell.

  He caught her before she landed, her lush breasts pressed into the hardness of his chest. If he hadn’t been hard as a rock before, he was now. The feeling of her against him was equal measures of bliss and agony. She was his enemy…it was too damned bad that she was so beautiful.

  With her in his arms, her body shuddering in pain, Saban took the opportunity to reach out, grasp the manacle attached to the chain, and clap it around her ankle. If her hands were free she could still eat, but with her leg immobilized she couldn’t run again.

  Good.

  Now, to get this over with.

  Forcing himself to let her go, he stood. Saban stared down at her. Sweat was beaded on her forehead and her face was pinched in an expression of agony.

  This wouldn’t do. If she were already broken then he would find no pleasure in breaking her himself, even if he couldn’t use his typical measures. The captive being a woman complicated things.

  Damn.

  Without another word or glance, Saban turned on his heel and left the cottage. Taking care to secure the door from the outside, he mounted Ceyffel and pointed him southward. He’d returned to the cottage because something warned him to do so. He was glad he listened.

  If he was quick enough, he could get to Dwyn Twll before Lucia and before she became too deeply involved with the wounded crew.

&nb
sp; Each and every Rees had a part to play in their smuggling operation. Brendan captained the Torriwr. Rose, a loner and vicious fighter, was their information gatherer. Whether by seduction or bloodletting, Rose could get whatever information they needed without anyone being the wiser. Lucian and his twin sister, Lucia, co-captained the Seren Mor together, and Lucia also acted as the healer. She had trained under her own mother, a skilled apothecary and midwife, and so she put her experience and knowledge to use patching up their crew.

  She was the reason he was headed back to their hidden sea cave. If anyone could figure out what troubled his captive and fix it, it was Lucia.

  Chapter Four

  Her wrist pulsing with sickening pain, Essa couldn’t see clearly through the haze of agony over her eyes or the wash of tears prickling them. With her other hand, she swiped at her eyes, despising the fact that she’d shown weakness in front of the pendejo Welshman.

  She imagined him as he’d been when he was standing over her at the creek, sneering down at her, those lips of his curled up. His long hair was dark, falling into his face, but she could easily see his eyes…the color of the sea on a clear day. The beard on his face wasn’t like the beards of the men in her brother’s crew; scraggly and unkempt. That man’s beard was shorn evenly, long, and shaped into a perfect point. An homage to a dagger, no doubt. It was wicked. He was wicked.

  And he meant to interrogate her, torture her for information about her brother and his operations.

  But he does not know I am his sister…and he cannot know. If the Welshman learned of her connection to the Demonios, he would separate her head from her shoulders and deliver her eyeless skull to her brother with a note that read: You should not have let her leave your sight.

  At the thought of her brother staring down at her decaying head, her guts twisted. He would never forgive her for that, for going against his orders and sneaking into the raiding party. All her life, he had cloistered her away in a castle on the hill, lavishing her in the silks and jewels he had plundered from British and French trading ships. His wealth afforded her all the best teachers, the richest foods, the luxurious surroundings, and fencing masters—though, the latter was offered simply to appease her and turn her head away from adventure on the sea.