The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  Lucia gathered her belongings and quit the cottage. Several heartbeats later, the sounds of a retreating horse slammed into Essa’s chest, choking her breath.

  Again, she was alone with Saban.

  But that did not frighten her as much as the fact that he dropped his heavy sack on the floor with a loud thud, then turned and closed the door. By the time he turned back, Essa’s chest was shaking with the pounding of her heart.

  “Fear not, Señorita,” he drawled, taking hold of the only chair in the room and sitting upon it. Backward. His long legs spread wide to straddle it. He braced his thick arms over the back of the chair and pinned her with his darkening eyes. “I promise you will enjoy what I have planned.”

  Again, a snort escaped. She couldn’t help it. Her brother called her impetuous; she considered herself passionate, if a little impulsive. Usually, it led to a severe look from Hermano, but now, in this moment, it might spell her death.

  Walk into the arms of Santa Maria with a smile…

  “I will find no pleasure in torture,” she huffed, tipping her chin up to look down her nose at him. Well, at least she tried to look down her nose at him. He was higher than her, even while sitting.

  Instead of a sneer—as she expected—a diabolically sensual smile slowly spread across his face. If she thought he was handsome when he was scowling and staring at her, she was not prepared for the devastation of his smile.

  Dios! She couldn’t stop her heart from tripping over itself, which made her breath lodge in her suddenly arid throat.

  “Tis not torture I speak of now…well, not unless you count the torture you will feel when I bring you to the brink of ecstasy, only to deny you completion. Over and over…”

  Her mouth dropped open, shock and a blast of desire exploding through her.

  At her expression, the bastard laughed, his eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, aye…this will certainly be torture.” Suddenly, he was there before her. She gasped then held her breath, uncertain of what he would do. She couldn’t help but study his face, as close as it was to her. The bronzed skin of his cheeks should have clashed with the blackness of his beard, but it only complemented it, making him all the more dashing. His smile showed straight white teeth, two of which looked more like fangs. He flashed those. She narrowed her eyes, willing her heart to slow down and beat at a normal pace. She didn’t know how long she’d survive his brand of torture if she couldn’t control her own damned body.

  Before she could snap at him to leave her be, he reached out one long, blunt-tipped finger, pressing it, feather-light, against the skin of her cheek. She wanted to shake off his touch, but she shivered instead, the sensation too much like a caress. Saban seemed to be enjoying this far too much, as his smile dipped into a frown that thinned as he clenched his jaw, all the while sliding his finger down her cheek, to her neck, and then along the tops of her breasts. Slowly, purposefully, lightly…he groaned. “For both of us.”

  It took her a moment to understand what he meant. It would be torture for both of them.

  She wanted to sneer at his arrogance but she found her attention caught on his mouth. His perfect white teeth were now biting down on his bottom lip. No matter how her mind screamed for her to turn away, she couldn’t. She was enraptured by this man’s wicked, impure, utterly sinful mouth.

  And he must have heard her thoughts, because the finger on her breast slid back up to her chin, hooking her jaw and lifting it until their lips were mere inches apart.

  He growled.

  “Let the torture begin,” he rasped just before bending forward to brush his lips over hers. They were much softer than she expected.

  Why are you letting the pendejo kiss you? Startled by her own lack of sense, she tried to push him away with her good hand, but it was like trying to shove a wall.

  “If this is torture, I would rather you kill me now,” she said, bristling.

  Because her hand was still pressed against this chest, she felt before she heard his rumble of laughter.

  “Come now, Ceinder, there is no need to speak of death,” he said, his fang showing as he grinned crookedly.

  “But you do intend to kill me, do you not?” She had to ask, though she knew the answer would not make her feel better.

  The bastard shrugged. “Mayhaps…but before then, I will get the information I want out of you, by fair means or foul.”

  “You mean by seduction or bone breaking?” Again, her impetuousness ran away with her tongue. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling him she would prefer broken bones.

  It would be a lie—and not just because she preferred seduction…she just liked pain a little less.

  “I have to admit…I’ve never seduced information from a woman before. This will be new, but I have always been a quick learner.” When his voice dropped, she felt the vibrations in her hand. Grunting, she pulled her hand back, shoving the left one into the sling to keep herself from reaching out to touch his hard chest again.

  Why did a man so beautiful have to be her enemy? This is punishment for going against Hermano, it has to be. God is so cruel. She wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it, but the arrogant Saban would probably think it a cry of longing.

  Is it not?

  Damn! She jerked her face from his grasp on her chin and turned to look at the wall.

  “What is your name?” he asked. She knew he was still kneeling there before her because she could see his large form out of the corner of her eye. Also, he gave off waves of heat that seemed to pulse into her. It couldn’t be natural.

  She remained silent. Telling the man her name provided him with little information. Until he asked her surname. Then, he would cut off her head and use her body as food for sharks.

  “If you do not tell me your name, I will have to come up with one on my own…” Essa assumed he meant it as some sort of threat, but she could hear the teasing note in his words. He was making light of the situation, as if he weren’t holding a woman hostage and threatening to torture her with delayed climaxes. Immediately, an image of Saban, his muscular arms flexing on either side of her as he drove himself into her over and over, surged through her, spilling heat through her as if she were made of flame.

  Dios! Why did she think of that? Never in her life had her thoughts been so deeply wicked. She could only blame the man before her for her sudden onset depravity.

  She was bound for hell. Too bad she couldn’t take Saban Rees with her.

  “I think I will call you…fy artaith,” he drawled, the sound sliding over her as his finger had earlier.

  “What does that mean?” she couldn’t help but ask, her curiosity like a living thing, working her tongue like a puppet.

  “It means…my torture.”

  Chapter Six

  Ernesto Gabon kicked the man in the ribs, smiling at the sickening crack of a breaking rib.

  “Where is my sister?” he ground out, kicking the man again. The man, his recently demoted former second-in-command, convulsed, spitting blood and another viscous fluid onto the ornately tiled floor of Ernesto’s private study.

  “Where is my sister?” He punctuated each word with a kick, knowing the man would not last long with this punishment. But he deserved it.

  “Comandante, por favor, no se! No se!” Ricardo Perez, a once good and honorable man, pleaded, his body tucked, his arms curled around his middle as he struggled to breathe through the pain and the, no doubt, punctured lungs.

  Ernesto sneered. “You should know! I left her in your care, and now she is gone! If anything has happened to her, I will hold you and your entire family accountable.”

  Ricardo whimpered, the cerdo. He was married to a horse-faced woman and had equally hideous children—five of them. And his mother and father lived with him, as well. They would all know that their precious Ricardo was the reason they were strung up over the side of a cliff and left to the elements. They would die slowly. And he would make Ricardo watch. If he lasted that long…

>   “Comandante,” a new voice interjected, and Ernesto looked to the now open door. He glared at the intruder, heat rising into his face.

  “You dare to interrupt me? You had better have information about the location of mi hermana, or you can expect to find yourself standing before a firing squad.” He knew he was being exceedingly violent—more violent than usual, but these were extreme circumstances. His sister, his only family was missing.

  “I bring news of your sister,” Marion, his new second-in-command, blurted, and Ernesto felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Until Marion continued. “She joined the men on their raid of the Welsh sloop.”

  “What!” he bellowed, the crystal tumbler on his desk vibrating with the sound. “How did this happen?” His mouth filled with then spilled curse words his dear mama would have cuffed his ears for. Expletives flooded from him as he clenched his hands into fists, barely holding in his urge to grab his sabre from the scabbard on his desk and thrust it through Marion.

  Marion flinched but remained silent.

  Rage surged, so blinding he couldn’t gauge the strength of his kick when he lashed out, once more, on Ricardo’s prone frame. There was a horrific crunch, a squeal of pain, and then nothing.

  “How did my sister get past a battalion of armed men, onto a ship lousy with more armed men?” He wasn’t yelling anymore, his voice was deceptively calm, though his blood was boiling.

  “She wore a disguise. She was dressed as one of the crew. Her maid servant, Matthia, admitted to making the breeches and shirt for her, and helping her climb down the side of the castillo using rope.”

  A red haze filled his vision. His home was brimming with traitors. He would deal with Matthia on his own…she would break as easily as a rose stem. Unfortunately, the maid’s assistance explained only part of how his sister escaped their castle on the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Biscay. The castle had been built more than a century ago by Spanish conquerors, seeking a place to secure their vast fortune of stolen gold. He liked to think he was following in the tradition.

  And how will you do that if you cannot hold on to one woman? The haze cleared from his eyes just long enough to see Marion staring down at Ricardo’s unmoving body. More than likely, the man was dead. He deserved no less.

  “Pendejo! How can one woman with breasts as big as grapefruits, disguise herself as a man and get on board one of my ships?” He was back to yelling now.

  “I do not know, Comandante, but I will ask Matthia—”

  “No. I will see to her myself. You go to Port Eynon, find out what happened to that ship.”

  That ship, La Corona, had cost a fortune to build, and not just because he’d needed it built quickly, but also because he’d wanted it built in a very specific way. It had to look exactly like another ship, one that brought terror on sight.

  The Santa Maria, the ship captained by the leader of the Demonios de Mar, Santiago Fernandez. The shipwrights had thought him mad to try and copy a ship with such a reputation, but he had his reasons.

  Jerking himself from his thoughts, he dismissed Marion with a hiss.

  Marion saluted crisply before turning on his heel and marching from the room.

  Left alone with Ricardo’s corpse, Ernesto did not spare it a glance before striding to the double doors opening onto the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard garden. Usually, he appreciated the beauty of the verdant grasses and brightly colored blooms but, today, the garden held no appeal for him.

  Over the wall surrounding the courtyard, he could see the masts and furled sails of ships—ships that belonged to him. For now.

  If he could get his beloved Esperanza under his control once again, he would never again worry over his empire.

  Essa…you have disobeyed me for the last time, Hermana.

  His little torturer did not know the power she wielded. She’d looked at him with hunger in her rich, brown eyes, her lush, pouty lips pressed together in a way that should have deterred him, but it only made him all the more determined to see those lips part on a gasp of pleasure.

  It didn’t escape his notice that his bollocks were heavy for a Demonios, and that his cock throbbed to slip inside of her—no matter to which faction she belonged. Sex was sex, and he wanted to have sex with her.

  Damn!

  Saban had never felt such deep desire for a woman in his life. He had bedded his share of comely wenches, but he had never wanted them, not really. He had rarely sought out sexual pleasure because women, quite literally, fell into his lap. They would throw their breasts in his face, toss their hair over the shoulders, and, with pursed lips, beg him for a romp. Who was he to deny them their requests?

  That must be it. I have not lain between a woman’s thighs in more than two months. That was a lifetime for a man with a hunger like his.

  The woman before him refused to look at him, but he could tell by the tension in her shoulders that she was not unaffected by his presence or his suggestion that they find pleasure in one another. Of course, he would be using his skills to find out what she knew regarding the Demonios and their plans in Port Eynon Bay, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy one another.

  He just had to convince her that ecstasy was preferable to agony.

  Why is that even a consideration? He need not convince her of anything—she was at his mercy, chained to the wall like a proper prisoner. The woman should be throwing herself on Saban’s leg, begging for his cock—he was offering her a way to give him what he wanted without the promise of pain.

  Damn! He’d never had this kind of trouble before.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice thick. “I have cheese and bread.”

  “No,” she snapped which was immediately contradicted by a low growl. A bitter curse escaped her lovely lips, and he smirked, enjoying this far too much.

  “No?” he drawled. She stiffened, clearly annoyed with his mirth. “I promise it is not poisoned, if that is your concern.” Not that he would poison it. He had never been in favor of killing in insidious ways. Upfront, in the open—that’s how he liked it. He liked his enemies knowing their deaths were coming. There were no surprises with “the Sabre”.

  “I prefer to look a man in the eye when I take his life…there is no glory in going the coward’s way.”

  She sniffed, thrusting her chin up before turning her head just far enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “If you insist,” she clipped.

  He braced his hands on his hips. “I do.”

  She sniffed again, sliding her side-eyed glare over him, from foot to crown. He wondered what she thought when she looked at him. Was she impressed?

  Why do you care? Because if he meant to seduce the answers from her, she had to, at least, be attracted to him. But when did this get so complicated? He missed the days when he could break a few fingers or flay a few inches of flesh from a forearm and the answers would spill from the prisoners’ lips.

  “What type of cheese?” she asked, her tone as imperious as the lift in her trim eyebrow.

  “What does it matter what type of cheese? Cheese is cheese, is it not? Comes from sheep or cows, is aged, and sometimes smells like shite.”

  She tensed, rolling her shoulders.

  “I will have the bread,” she remarked.

  “Turn then, we will share a meal,” he invited, turning to grab the sack of food off the floor by the door.

  When she didn’t move, he clicked his tongue. “Come now, fy artaith, surely we can have a meal together. Speak to one another as strangers getting to know one another.”

  She huffed, twisted around on her arse as much as she could with her leg tethered, and slapped him with a glare so foul he nearly recoiled.

  “Share a meal as strangers getting to know one another?” She spat a line of Spanish words he assumed were related to his mother and a horse, then she snapped, “I will eat a meal with you if you take this manacle off my leg and allow me to share a meal with you that does not put me at a disad
vantage.”

  He crossed his arms, staring down at her with raised eyebrows. “You think being without the manacle would better your chances at—what?—escaping? Killing me? I think not.”

  She crossed her own arms, which was awkward with one in a sling, and set her jaw. “Then I will not eat.”

  She thought to dissuade him from his task by refusing to eat? Hell, that would make his job easier. The weaker she got, the easier she would be to manipulate. But that wasn’t fair to him. He enjoyed the thrill of breaking a fully healthy person, it made the breaking all the more complete.

  “If that is what you wish,” he replied, shrugging.

  Saban took the chair, spun it around so it was facing her, then sat down in it. He pulled the sack of food into his lap, opened it, and began to pull out each item while examining it as though it were deserving of worship.

  “Mmmm, speckled bread, buttery, with a hint of sweet that makes the tongue dance,” he said, lifting the chunk of bread to just beneath his nose where he sniffed it slowly, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Delicious.”

  She didn’t say anything, only stared at him with a growing fascination on her face.

  Good…

  “Caerffili…probably not the sort of cheese you are used to eating, but it is soft, rich, slightly sweet, and perfect when dipped in wine.” Holding the cheese and bread in one large hand, he pulled a leather pouch from the bottom of the sack. Using his teeth, he pulled the stopper from the pouch and offered it to her.

  “Thirsty?” he drawled, his gaze taking in the expression on her face. He nearly groaned when her small, pink tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “All you have to do is share a meal with me…”

  She snapped her gaze from the pouch to his eyes and nearly burned him with the malice he saw there.

  “You cannot buy my surrender with sour wine,” she countered, and he bit his bottom lip to keep his smile from showing. Hell, but she was a ball of fury and passion—his two favorite bedmates.

  Tucking the cheese and bread back in the sack, he pressed his free hand to his chest and pouted. “It insults me that you would think our wine sour. I will have you know, this wine was smuggled from a ship carrying the finest wines made in France.”