The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  She ground her teeth together to keep from spitting in his face. It would do her no good. She had to remember that she was his prisoner. But that did not leave her without recourse.

  “Another bargain,” she blurted, plotting her plan as she went along.

  He halted his investigation and met her gaze.

  “For what?” he asked, that curiosity and interest back in his eyes.

  “I will tell you the name of the captain of the crew that raided your ship.” The information was safe enough, since the man she would name had remained behind on La Corona, and was likely halfway back to San Sebastian. Not that he would know that. She battled back a smile of victory at her insidiousness.

  “Oh?” he asked, thrusting a black eyebrow into the air. She almost expected him to start stroking his beard, but when he didn’t she almost cried out in disappointment. Hell, the man was slowly driving her mad. “And what would you want in return for this information?”

  Good…she had him on her hook.

  “I want you to help me loose the wrappings around me and then turn around so that I may undress without you leering at me.” She lifted her chin into the air, daring him to deny her request.

  He was silent, his eyes contemplative and yet still burning a hole through her. He was weighing his desire for information against his desire to humiliate her.

  “Tell me then,” he finally said, sitting back on his heels. He didn’t move from there, though, so he still crowded her with his size, his scent, and his heat. He was intimidating without being frightening.

  How had she not noticed that before? She wasn’t afraid of him any longer. When had that happened? And why wasn’t she afraid of him? He’d killed her brother’s men, took her prisoner, chased her down like a dog, and then clapped her in irons. She should be afraid of him—he was a Welshman, her brother’s greatest enemy. And yet…she couldn’t dredge up the terror she had once felt.

  Shaking herself, she opened her mouth to speak but stopped the moment his hand touched her side.

  “Let me help you with your wrapping first,” he murmured, bending his head to the task. “Then, once you are suitably attired, you can tell me the name.”

  Shock stole her breath. He was actually being…thoughtful? And his hands, rather than clumsily trying to snatch handfuls of her breasts, were steady, methodical, purposeful. He was doing exactly as he promised. Finally, once the wrappings were loose enough for her to finish the task herself, he stood, his powerful legs moving his bulk with admirable agility.

  He actually shocked her again by turning around and walking to the door. Before she could thank him for doing as she asked, he opened the door, walked through it, and then shut it behind him. He was leaving her alone so she could dress in privacy? No, there had to be some other reason he left the cottage. Perhaps he had to relieve himself. Perhaps he needed a breath of fresh air. Si, that was it. He was tired of being stuck in the small space with her and decided to give himself time away from her.

  Or…he was being polite.

  Madre de Dios! She was in trouble.

  Not giving herself time to dwell on the ridiculous, she pulled the wrappings from around her breasts, letting the linen fall to a heap around her waist. With her good arm, she threw Saban’s shirt over her head, maneuvering her head through the head hole. Gingerly moving her unrestrained arm, she eased the right arm through the sleeve of Saban’s shirt and pulled up the overlong material into a cuff just above the bandage around her wrist. It was much easier to put her other arm through. It was difficult, though, to pull the stays at the throat with only one hand, so she utilized her teeth to hold one leather tie while she pulled the other to close the gap in the collar. The closure was lopsided, but at least she was covered now. She pulled the bottom of the shirt down over her belly and down past her ass to cover her backside, which was feeling particularly chilled on the dirt floor.

  In the silence left in Saban’s absence, Essa couldn’t help but think about the man whose shirt she wore. It was large, well-made, and smelled of him—like sea and woods. Like shirt like man; large and well-made. Her thoughts drifted to her first sight of him, how his body was taut, his muscles rippling, his long hair framing a face made for sin. And those lips. Dios those lips would be her undoing. No man should have lips that begged for kisses even as they swore curses. But it wasn’t his lips that had captivated her the most, it was his eyes. Deep green one moment and then soft as sea foam the next. They were as tumultuous as the sea in a storm and yet as serene as a lagoon on a windless day.

  Saban Rees was a man of many moods, much like the sea on which he sailed, and she wondered if, perhaps…

  Cursing, Essa wanted to slap herself. She was a Fernandez, the sister of the Demonios de Mar commander. She could not let the enemy turn her so easily. He was playing at polite and playfully seductive now, but that was not the true man beneath the surface, the one that commanded the Ganwyd o’r Mor and ordered the death of innocents. Saban Rees would eventually show himself as the monster she knew him to be.

  It was easier to hate a monster.

  Chapter Eight

  What the hell was he doing? It was taking too much time to get information out of his captive, time he could be using tending to the men and their families after the raid. Thankfully, none of the crew had died, but there were some with grievous wounds that would need constant attention. Which was why his insistence for Lucia to come tend to Essa had made his cousin wary. Lucian, Lucia’s twin, had glared at him, his eyes glittering with unspoken anger. Like Saban, Lucian knew that Lucia’s skills were better used there, in Dwyn Twll, on the men Essa’s crew had harmed.

  Lucian kept his mouth closed, though, because he knew better than to call out Saban in front of the men…unless he wanted to face Saban’s sabre.

  After several minutes, Saban stopped pacing outside the cottage door and opened it, not bothering to knock or ask if she was ready for him. He strode inside and stopped in his tracks.

  Essa was standing, the manacle still around her ankle, but that didn’t stop her from looking like she was preparing to unman him with her bare hands. One arm curled at her chest and her one fist firmly planted on her hip, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up on each arm, she looked fierce. And damned sexy.

  Her eyes, nearly black, slid over him from top to toe, and she sneered as if she found him wanting. He refused to care that her assessment of him prickled.

  “I will have that name now,” he demanded, crossing his arms and standing, legs spread, before the window to block out the light. Putting her at a disadvantage was one way to keep her unsettled.

  She lifted her chin, huffing. “No.”

  He growled, stalking toward her but stopping just in front of her rather than ploughing into her to pin her to the wall as he’d wanted to. “What did you say?”

  Essa’s face gave no indication of fear, and her eyes remained on his, unblinkingly.

  “I said no, Pendejo,” she ground out. “I have been tolerant thus far, allowing you liberties and demands, but no more. I will no longer be your compliant captive.”

  He reeled back, her audacity bordering on madness. She honestly believed that she had a choice? That she was somehow a guest and would take her leave once she’d had enough of his inadequate hospitality? He wanted to laugh. He wanted to take her by the arms and shake her. He wanted to take her mouth, kissing the foolishness from her lips. The urge nigh on impossible to resist, he stepped closer, his instincts alert but his body attuned only to hers.

  He towered over her, his audacious Spanish torturer, but she did not cower as many would. She stood her ground, tilting her face up to meet his. There was a flickering of something behind her outraged expression but it was doused too quickly for him to see it clearly.

  Bending his head, his breaths deep and hot, he stopped his descent just before his lips brushed hers. Her breath caught, and he dropped his gaze from hers to skim over the temptation of her mouth. Glancing up, he caught the tail end of somet
hing he knew intimately, the fire of desire.

  A smile, slow and practiced in its sensuality, formed on his face.

  “And I, fy artaith, have been tolerant thus far, allowing you to remained dressed when I would much rather you be naked, offering you basic comforts when I would much rather you beg me for even a drop of water. You seem to think that I have been treating you poorly, that you deserve to be treated as a queen instead of as a prisoner of war.”

  As close as he was, he could feel her nipples rub against him as she breathed, her exhalations ragged.

  He brushed his lips over hers, butterfly soft, then he spoke, his lips close enough to taste her response, “I will have that name, Esperanza, or I will make good on stripping you naked and taking my basic comforts from your soft, curvy body.”

  She gasped, raising her hand to strike his face, but he took hold of her wrist, chuckling at the rage on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, her lips parted in shock—she was delectable.

  Essa spat, trying to wrench her wrist from his grip. He held fast. “You are the monster my brother said you are!”

  Again, she mentioned her brother. Who was her brother? Was he one of the men who was killed during the raid? He would make a point to ask her later, once this battle of wills was won, with him the victor.

  “You think I am a monster, do you?” he asked, forced boredom in his tone.

  “Si,” she hissed. “El Monstro.”

  He’d been called worse—sometimes by women he’d left naked in his bed. He’d pleasured them then left them wanting and aching for more. He never stayed the night and he never had the same woman twice. It made things complicated, and who needed complications when one could sail the world and tup women in every port?

  “I am curious, Essa, what your brother says about me…” He was goading her, and he knew it, but he could tell from the rising color in her face that she would take the bait eagerly.

  “He tells me about how you and your men weigh anchor in the middle of the night, sneak into port, and plunder unsuspecting villages while they slumber. He tells me that you encourage your men to violate women, saying it is better for them to breed Welshmen than weak and inferior men.”

  Left breathless by the horrific things she was saying, Saban only nodded for her to continue.

  “Mi hermano told me about how you order your men to kill all the males of fighting age in the villages so that there will be no one to hold a sword against you when you return.”

  That was a disgusting lie, and not in part to the fact that Saban knew women were just as capable as men at wielding a sword—his cousin, Rose, was a vicious swordswoman.

  “And what else does he tell you?” he asked, a morbid curiosity pushing the words from his lips.

  Essa didn’t seem to notice how tense he had become, because she continued sneering at him, an air of superiority and morality oozing from her form.

  “He tells me that you would kill your own brother for a handful of coins, and would sell your own mother into whoredom to pay for a round of drinks at a pub.”

  He wanted to smash his fist into the stone wall and feel the blood gush from his knuckles. Her brother was telling the most despicable lies—lies that would get a man killed. Especially the man spreading them.

  “Is that all?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble that finally made her snap out of her tirade. Her gaze took in the tension in his stance and the thunderous scowl on his face, and she paused, swallowing.

  “Si,” she said, wrapping her good arm around her middle as if to hold herself together.

  Saban took a deep breath, forcing clarity and reason into his beastly thoughts—he wanted to tear her brother’s throat out, but he couldn’t tell her that. If he thought getting information out of her was difficult now, it would be even more so if he threatened her family.

  “And does your brother have proof of these acts?” he asked, knowing damned well no proof existed.

  She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it, her brow dipping into a V over her dark coffee eyes.

  “None that I have seen with my own eyes,” she admitted, and Saban was surprised by her honesty. “But I trust my brother with my life. He would not lie to me about this. Why would he? What does he gain from it?”

  Saban barked a humorless laugh before pinning her with a look that said, “everything”.

  “Indeed…what does one gain from lying about an enemy faction?” It was a rhetorical question, they both knew that the gains were power and influence. “And what if I told you I can prove your brother a liar?” He knew he was playing with fire, that following through with his plan made in a moment of madness would probably cause a stir among the Rees family. But, for some reason he could not comprehend, he needed her to know that he was not the man she thought him to be. That he was not the monster her brother made him out to be.

  “I would not believe you,” she snapped, but there was a flash of uncertainty in her expression.

  “But you are curious, are you not? You want to see if the Ganwyd o’r Mor are capable of such atrocities…” He had her there. She bit her bottom lip in thought, and Saban nearly groaned at the sight. She was trouble, but he had yet to determine if she was the good kind of trouble or bad.

  Either way, he was going to enjoy finding out.

  An hour later, Saban was thoroughly regretting his fool idea to take his captive to Dwyn Twll. Certainly, he made sure to secure her legs before hauling her onto Ceyffel’s back in front of him, and he made sure to place a sack over her head to prevent her from knowing the way to their critically important smuggler’s den, but that would not stop Lucian, Brendan, Lucia, and Rose from attempting to gut him.

  I am the Brenin, they should not question my decisions. Oh, how he wished it were that easy. Though he was the undisputed “king” of the Welsh faction of pirates and smugglers, he only held the position because his grandfather had decided it was time to retire and left the title to him. His grandfather, Ioan Rees, could have left the title to any one of the Rees offspring, but he’d chosen Saban because he was the fiercest and most loyal. But would bringing an enemy into their midst only prove how soft and ambivalent he had become? No, he was neither of those things. He would rather cut out his own heart than betray his family, but he had to admit that his dealings with Essa went against his usual methods.

  Lucian had seen that, Lucia had seen that, he was just waiting for Brendan and Rose to join in the chorus, chanting for Lucia to perform a trephining on his skull—removing the demons that had obviously tainted his brains.

  The ride from the cottage at the edge of the Marches to the clearing right before the hidden entrance to their sea cave hideout usually took less than half an hour—because he could gallop. But with Essa’s lush arse cradled against his cock, he was taking it slow. And not just because he was enjoying the sweet agony of imagining his cock buried balls deep, but also because, the way she was bound, it was difficult to keep her seated even at a canter. Galloping would guarantee a tumble to the ground, and that would certainly leave a mark on that beautiful skin.

  “We are nearly there,” he said, his mouth close to where he assumed her ear was beneath the sack.

  She grunted, obviously agitated. He grinned. “And where are we going?” she asked for the fifth time since he removed the manacle around her ankle and ordered her—upon pain of death, though he wouldn’t actually kill her—to stay still while he bound her legs using leather tongs he’d brought with him. When he’d shoved them into his supply sack, he hadn’t really thought of why he’d done it…now he knew.

  “You will know when we get there…as it is I am taking a great risk—to your life and my bollocks—bringing you here.”

  “And where is here?” Her voice was muffled by the sack but he could hear the frustration in it.

  “You will know when we get there,” he repeated, his own annoyance growing.

  Finally, the clearing appeared. It was the clearing that indicated the start of the c
liffside path that led down to the hidden entrance to Dwyn Twll. Around the clearing, tall trees with thick foliage hid several tethered horses. He would add his own to that number soon enough. Pulling Ceyffel to a stop beside his usual spot, Saban dismounted and turned to pull Essa down into his arms. She slid off Ceyffel’s back with an oomph, her useless right arm and bound legs incapable of helping her descend. She slammed into his chest and he caught her, holding her there against him. Her breasts were plump, heavy, like twin pillows of temptation. God, what he wouldn’t do to see them naked, bared to his rapacious gaze, to cup them in his hands, to tease each nipple with his tongue, drawing out her moans and making her shudder beneath him.

  When she began to wiggle, he flinched, as her feet came perilously close to his already aching cock. Grunting, he lowered her to the ground, setting her back and letting her go.

  “Now what?” she snapped, and he was glad of the sack over her head because he was sure she wouldn’t appreciate the way he was staring at her. His shirt on her covered her from neck to mid-thigh, but the thinness of it clung to the swell of her unbound breasts, and the nipples he so wanted to nibble were erect, begging for him to adore them. The black leather breeches she was wearing seemed like a second skin, wrapping her body to show off every delectable curve of her legs. She had long, shapely legs, the kind of legs that could wrap around a man’s waist and provide enough cushioning for rigorous thrusting.

  His cock throbbed at that thought and he cursed.

  “I am waiting,” she drawled, her impatience and annoyance evident in the way she was tapping one booted foot against the compacted sand and sod.

  “Come, we are nearly there,” he offered, still unwilling to share more. He was already risking much in bringing her this far. As it was, he already knew his sentries would have reported his arrival to the second-in-command, Brendan, who acted as leader in his stead. Lucian, while the most intelligent of them, was a likely choice for Saban’s second, he didn’t have the brutality and fortitude it took to be the leader of a pirate faction. And Lucia and Rose…while he believed women were nearly as capable as men in battle, he also knew his cousins had one failing that would make them poor leaders: compassion.