The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  He would have already discovered her missing, and Matthia, her personal maid, wouldn’t be able to hold out long against her brother’s rage. She would tell him the whole of her mistress’ plan.

  Trembling, her heart hitching with each beat, she bit back a sob.

  Hermano…I never meant for this to happen…

  Moving to try and get comfortable on the cold, hard-packed dirt floor, she felt the weight of the manacle around her left ankle. Damn! He had used her moment of weakness to his advantage, chaining her to the wall when she couldn’t fight back.

  Is this how I die, the captive of a bastard Welshman? Closing her eyes, she leaned back. Fatigue drowned her, pulling her down until she couldn’t move, until the very air seemed too heavy to breathe.

  She awoke when a scraping at the door startled her.

  He has returned.

  Her body aching from all it had endured, she could barely get back into a sitting position from where she was currently laying on her side, her throbbing wrist propped up on her hip.

  Just as she pushed herself upward to a semi-sitting angle, the door swung inward and a tall, willowy blonde woman strode inside. Her green eyes—similar to her captor’s—took Essa in, examining her from a short distance. Finally, she clicked her tongue and turned her head just enough to yell over her shoulder, “If you mean to keep her alive long, you best give her something else to wear.”

  Stunned, Essa looked down, suddenly remembering that her shirt had been ripped during the chase and the linens wrapped around her chest had gotten wet and were now caked in dirt from the floor. And now that she’d seen it, her senses seemed to come back to life. The leather breeches rubbed at her flesh, the sand from the beach having made its way up her leg and down her ass to lodge itself in her most intimate parts. The area between her thighs was raw, and the crack of her backside crunched whenever she moved.

  Not only that, the saltwater from her swim to shore had coated her skin in a fine brine, drying her up like a piece of salted pork.

  She felt filthy, disgusting, uncomfortable, and she hated that her discomfort was making her vulnerable. From a castle to a hovel—how far she had fallen, all because she wanted to prove to her brother—to herself—that she could be trusted as one of his crew. That she had what it took for a life on the sea. Certainly, she understood that she was romanticizing it, that it wouldn’t be easy or even as exhilarating as she had dreamed, but she hadn’t been prepared for the all-out brutality she had witnessed the night before.

  All the blood, the screams of pain, the terror…if this was what her brother considered the life of a gentleman pirate, she probably needed to reconsider her choices.

  The woman walked around the chair in the middle of the room and crouched beside where Essa was reclining, doing her best not to appear beaten down.

  Gazing at the woman before her, Essa noticed something about the woman that she had not seen in the man…there was a kindness about her mouth and a brightness in her eyes that made Essa want to sigh in relief.

  “Who are you?” Essa couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  The woman smiled, the brightness of her expression lighting up her face.

  “I am Lucia, and that man glowering and pacing outside is my cousin, Saban,” she answered, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the door.

  Saban…what sort of name was that?

  “Why are you keeping me prisoner?” Essa asked, lifting her chin in a show of bravado she couldn’t back up. “I have done nothing to you.” And she hadn’t. Though she had boarded the ship with the men, the moment the fighting began, everything she’d ever been taught had fled her mind. She stood there, watching the carnage around her, frozen in place. It wasn’t until she noticed that her brother’s men were falling faster than the other men that she realized she needed to retreat.

  Now, in the light of day, chained to a wall, she found that her shame would choke her if she let it. But now wasn’t the time for self-recrimination.

  “Were you not on the ship last night, part of the Demonios raiding party?” Lucia inquired, her fine blonde eyebrows arching.

  “Si,” she answered. “I was there, but I did not harm anyone…I could not.” Despite all her training and tutoring with the sword, she had become a spineless cerdo—pig—the moment she was needed most. She’d come face to face with the reality of her own limits…they ended just shy of taking life.

  Her brother would be ashamed of her.

  “If you were part of the raiding party, how are we to know that you did not harm one of my men?”

  “Your men?” Essa blurted, her mind whirling.

  Lucia grinned. “Aye, my men. I am co-captain with my brother.” Her gaze seemed to delve into Essa. “Do you not have female pirates in the Demonios?”

  What a question! Of course, they did not. Women are not meant for piracy, they are meant to remain on shore, waiting for their men to return, rich with plunder and eager for pleasure. Her brother’s words tore through her mind, as familiar to her as any childhood story. They were the words her brother would recite whenever she began asking him about her place among his growing empire of thieves. Each time, her brother would scoff at her, remind her that she had breasts and not bollocks, and then send her away to her room draped in sumptuous silks and furs.

  It had angered her, turning her inside out. But he was her brother, her only family. She had to trust him, take him at his word. But, before her, was a woman who helmed a ship.

  An enemy ship.

  Her moment of admiration was squelched. “No. We do not.” Her answer was sharp. “And I did not kill any of your men. I left the ship before the battle was over.” Admitting her cowardice was like swallowing a cask of sea water.

  Heavy footfalls announced Saban’s entry. She stiffened, refusing to acknowledge he was there. Lucia, she’d speak with, but she would not give Saban another moment of her time.

  “If you did not mean to kill anyone, what was your purpose?” Lucia asked, her gaze exploring Essa’s face, then dropping to the wrist Essa now held against her belly. The throbbing had lessened, but she wondered if that was a bad sign.

  “I—I made a mistake. I was not supposed to be there,” she admitted. She was trapped, a captive of the enemy, lying would only get her into more trouble, especially since she sensed Saban could smell a lie from a hundred leagues away. Also…if she told them something, they would be less likely to torture her. At least she hoped. Offer them basic, non-critical information, and they would assume she had no real knowledge of the inner workings of the Demonios…which was partially true. She might not know their targets or where they kept their plunder, but she did know where the faction commander laid his head at night.

  They could flay that information from me, and I would betray my brother—no! She would never. She was a Fernandez, there was nothing they could do to her that would make her betray her hermano or his men.

  Not like a cowardly Welshman. She wanted to spit.

  “Mistake?” Saban’s deep voice seemed dredged from the depths. “You think attacking one of my ships and ambushing innocent men as they travelled home is a mistake?” A fissure opened up within her, and molten rage surged out.

  “We never would have attacked your ships if you were not the greatest threat to life on the sea,” she cried, her voice shrill. “And what is this about killing innocents?” She wanted to reach out and snatch his eyes from his face. “You know nothing about innocents—except how to kill them. I know, I have heard all the stories about the Ganwyd o’r Mor and their exploits. The marauding, the pillaging, the raping and murdering!” She lurched forward, desperately trying to get to the man sneering down at her, only for her own weakness to make her tumble backward. “You are a coward—you and your kind. I will not rest until every last one of you is fish food!”

  He smiled. The pendejo smiled! She growled. His smile grew.

  Lucia sighed and Essa dropped her gaze from the bastard to the woman now kneeling b
efore her. So wrapped up in her diatribe, Essa hadn’t noticed how pale Lucia had gotten. Her once flashing green eyes were now clouded with something…regret? Sadness?

  She should have regret. What they have done is unforgiveable.

  Numb from her outrage, Essa only watched as Lucia reached out trembling hands to take a gentle hold of Essa’s wrist. Without a word, Lucia examined it, slowly turning it over and running soothing hands over the wrist bone and twitching muscles.

  After a few minutes, Lucia gently placed the thoroughly examined wrist on Essa’s lap.

  “Tis a sprain,” Lucia finally spoke into the heavy silence. “I will wrap it with a poultice I make from salt, flour, and vinegar. If will still hurt for a few days, but it will heal without any permanent weakness.” Lucia stood, her movements seemed pained, as if something weighty were on her shoulders. She turned to her cousin, dipping her head. “I will return once I have gathered my medicaments from Dwyn Twll.”

  Saban gave her a slow nod, his eyes taking in his cousin’s face. Essa was perplexed at the concern she saw in the man’s expression. His cheeks looked harder, his forehead furrowed. Even his sinfully beautiful lips were pressed together thoughtfully. What sort of devil cared about anyone but himself? Surely it was only the imitation of concern, like a monkey imitating a human’s use of tools to get the meat from the nuts.

  Soon, the sounds of a departing rider filled the small room.

  She was alone with Saban once again.

  Sensing his regard, she kept her face down, holding her breath. Now that the fire of her anger had died to embers, she realized the danger in which she’d carelessly thrown herself. One did not taunt their captor with their hatred of their actions, it only fed their belief that the captive was best dead.

  Biting her lip, Essa waited for Saban to begin the interrogation.

  A deep, dark, sensual chuckle rumbled through the air. It was thick and tight, like the man who’d loosed it. “You may relax, Ceinder. I will wait until Lucia has fixed you before I take my pleasure in breaking you.”

  Unwillingly, she trembled, the promise of pain—and something else—in his voice was like a dagger to the soft tissue of her thigh, cutting deep and twisting.

  You are a Fernandez! Show some spine! If Hermano could see her now, he would be ashamed to call her sister, and she wouldn’t blame him. Her brother, the leader of men, was strong and decisive, he could withstand torture for days. But her…she had already given the plunderer more information than he deserved. She would rather have died in the creek.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she sat up straighter, using all of her will to ignore the flaring of pain in her wrist.

  “And I will find my pleasure in disappointing you,” she drawled, an eyebrow quirked, her lips curled just so.

  Saban pinned his attentions to her as though she were made of secrets and he was yearning to learn all of her. His gaze, sharp and assessing, would have ripped her to shreds if she were a lesser woman.

  “We are at an impasse, then,” he finally said, the timbre of his voice deceptively calm—for his eyes, the sea green, were as tempestuous as the ocean in a storm. “And I am eager to see who is pleasured the most.”

  Madre de Dios! How was it possible for a human voice to rumble so? Was he man or earth spirit, capable of making the ground move with a simple sound?

  Unwilling to give voice to her most vicious thoughts, she kept silent. He could peel the skin from her body but she would still spit in his face, cursing him until Santa Maria came to collect her soul.

  Though, from the dark and insidious look on Saban’s face, she didn’t know if she’d survive the day.

  Chapter Five

  Essa watched, her heart in her throat, as Saban paced in the small space, his long, thick legs swallowing the room in a few steps before he would turn and pace the other direction. The man was intimidating, even when he wasn’t looking at her with those startling green eyes. Even in his silence, he made Essa more and more uncomfortable. And it didn’t help that he was sinfully attractive. His dark hair was overlong, his lips were too soft looking, and his eyelashes were long and black, curling up at the ends in a strangely feminine way that should have looked silly on him. It didn’t. It made him all the more beautiful—damn him!

  And, since the heat of the day increased, he’d removed his leather vest, which gave her an eyeful of a sweat-soaked linen shirt, molding to his taut, rippling muscles like skin. She tried to look away, to ignore the draw of his physical perfection, but she couldn’t. Damn him!

  The pacing, the extending and flexing of his leg muscles was another distraction she couldn’t overlook without closing her eyes—which would make her look tired, vulnerable. And so she let her gaze wander, following his movements as he moved from one side of the cottage to the other.

  What was he thinking? Was he planning her torture and murder?

  Will I have another chance to escape?

  Her answer became “unlikely” when she remembered that she was fettered with a chain, fastened to a stone wall, and the man before her was acting as her guard, torturer, and executioner.

  Weariness bit at her, begging her to lean back and let her fatigue overcome her. But she couldn’t sleep now, not when the whole of her future was uncertain. How much time did she have left?

  Who would tell her hermano of her death? More than likely, the Welshman would send a piece of her body to her brother. But unless she told Saban who her brother was, he wouldn’t know who to report to. He wouldn’t know who to gloat over.

  It was both a blessing and a blow.

  She continued watching the man as he paced, his movements agile and silent, his ease and quiet belying his size.

  If he were one of the Demonios, he would be unmatched.

  She shook her head, angry at herself for thinking of the noble Demonios in the same thought with the immoral and hateful Saban Rees.

  Would Saban Rees, the leader of the Ganwyd o’r Mor, be the only one to witness her demise?

  As if in reply, the sound of approaching hooves pounded through the small structure. Minutes later, Essa could hear a horse drawing to a stop just outside, right before Lucia walked through the open door, a satchel hanging from her shoulder.

  She nodded to Saban and then moved close enough to Essa to reexamine Essa’s wrist. She knelt, her black leather breeches easily stretching over her long legs as she bent at the knees.

  “Now, I want to mix the poultice, which will take but a moment. Then, I will apply the poultice to the sprained wrist, wrap it with clean linen, and brace it with a sling so you do not injure it further.”

  At that, Essa snorted, rolling her eyes incredulously.

  Lucia grinned, her gaze flicking to Saban who was standing, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, staring at them. Saban didn’t even acknowledge Lucia, his gaze was lethal in its perusal of her, as though he were taking her apart piece by piece in his thoughts. Or perhaps, undressing her down to her skin.

  She grunted, pushing down a full shudder.

  Dios! He is eager to have his way with me. Despite the tension, she couldn’t miss the double entendre in her own thoughts.

  Gritting her teeth, she prepared herself for Lucia’s ministrations. Thankfully, Lucia made quick work of mixing the powders in a small bowl, and then mixing in the right amount of strong-smelling vinegar to make the poultice thick but not sticky. Once the poultice was complete, Lucia pressed the cold and strangely numbing medicament to Essa’s wrist.

  “Hold this here,” Lucia directed, and Essa obeyed, her attention focused on the woman’s expert movements. This wasn’t Lucia’s first sprained appendage.

  No doubt, there have been many Welshmen in need of Lucia’s services…since they are all weak as babes, unable to tolerate any amount of pain. She wanted to snort again, but she could feel Saban’s never wavering gaze on her. Studying her for vulnerabilities, of course. Why else would be staring at her so intently?

  She wanted to shrug
but she couldn’t since Lucia chose that moment to wrap the bandage around Essa’s wrist. The poultice had already begun its work, sucking the pain and ache from the sprain. Once the bandage was secured with a knot, Lucia took another length of cloth, snaking it under the bandaged wrist, then around Essa’s neck where she tied another knot. The sling held the weight of the wrist, allowing Essa’s arm to relax.

  Too bad the rest of her couldn’t relax. Not with Saban watching, the tension in his body nearly turning him to stone.

  “There,” Lucia announced. “That should do.” Essa nodded in grudging thanks before Lucia stood and turned to Saban. “Savage Saban,” she teased, “try not to be rough with her. She may be a Demonios but she is still a woman.”

  Essa, a woman of strength, determination, and with a love of the finer things, didn’t know whether to take offense at Lucia’s statement.

  She decided on keeping her mouth shut either way. The less she said, the less they could hold against her when the torturing began. From what her brother had told her about the Ganwyd o’r Mor, they were a vindictive lot.

  Saban didn’t respond to Lucia’s obvious dig. Instead, he walked outside. He was gone but a moment, before he returned with a heavy-looking sack.

  “Thank you for bringing these, Cousin,” Saban said, placing a large hand on Lucia’s shoulder. Lucia didn’t shrink away from her cousin’s regard. Instead, she placed her smaller hand over his, her expression one of affection.

  “Of course.” Lucia’s conflicted gaze slipped from Saban to her, then back to Saban. “Do not make me regret leaving you alone with her.”

  Saban didn’t blink an eye. It was as though he were made of iron rather than taut, bronzed flesh.