The Savage Sabre

by Winchester, Rosamund

  “Brother?” he intoned, watching her expression. She flinched but nodded. “You have spoken of your brother before…” He paused, waiting for her expression to change, and it did, from fear to guilt. “Who is your brother, Essa?”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed heavily. The hand holding his to her thigh let him go, but he remained where he was; he couldn’t pull himself away even if he tried. He was attached to Essa by invisible strands he dare not cut. Not yet.

  Not ever.

  A shudder vibrated through her body and her voice caught. “My brother…is Ernesto Fernandez.” Her face lost all color as the words sank into his mind—she was preparing for his response. “At least, that is what he calls himself.”

  “Ernesto Fernandez,” he repeated, his voice flat. “The same man who sent La Corona to attack the Torriwr.” It was a statement, one that made her eyes widen and her lips part on a trembling breath. “The same man who indirectly ordered the death of two of my friends.”

  Her eyes, already wide, filled with apprehension, her shoulders tensing in preparation of flight. Damn. He knew he was scaring her, that his words were a lit taper to the pile of dry timbers in her core, but he couldn’t stop them from dripping from his mouth like venom from a snake’s mouth.

  “Your brother, who lied to you about me, about my people…”

  Sucking air into her chest, she nodded jerkily, her lips trembling. “Si,” she whispered on an exhalation, the heat of her teasing him, tormenting him.

  “You are the sister to the man who has dared to take on the true leader of the Demonios de Mar.” Another statement and, this time, she literally shook with shudders, trembling beneath his hand on her leg.

  Again, she nodded. “Si,” she admitted, claiming relation to a man Saban wanted to slice to pieces with his blades. “I know this makes me your enemy, but…I wanted to admit to my part of this wrong.” She swallowed. “I will face whatever punishment that you see fit to give me. I deserve whatever you deem equal to the life of your men.”

  Nothing would ever equal the lives of his men—or anyone he cared about.

  Including Essa.

  Damn! What was he to do about her, this woman who’d just admitted to being blood to the man who had been a thorn in his side for years? And, aye, he knew the extent of Ernesto Fernandez’s involvement with the issues they had been having, issues he once hung on the Demonios de Mar, at least up until that very day. Essa’s brother was the one responsible for the poor goods flooding the market with the Ganwyd o’r Mor name attached to them, the pillaging of ports from the Azores to Morocco, and the killing of women and children along the ports in Spain. Ernesto Fernandez had gone above and beyond human evil to commit such atrocities in the name of the Welsh faction—and under the flag of the Demonios.

  “Why?” he asked, his thoughts spilling from his mouth unbidden.

  Her eyebrows dipped into a deep V, her confusion obvious.

  “Why what?”

  “Why would your brother do this?” At her stark expression and tense silence, he continued, “For years, he has targeted the Ganwyd o’r Mor, committing terrible acts in our name and selling poorly-made goods—at times diseased foods—in markets where we often trade our smuggled goods for money and supplies. Why would he do that? What happened that he would focus his attentions on us? I cannot fathom that kind of hatred.”

  Essa closed her eyes, her face pinching with an expression he recognized as weariness.

  “I do not know. He told me very little of his activities. For years, I thought he kept his work hidden from me to protect me—his only family—from the harshness of the world. He kept me in my tower, away from the men on the dock, away from anyone who would tell me what was really going on when the ships left port. I believed that Ernesto was using piracy as a way to steal from the true criminals to support the villages around our castillo. He told me that for every pirated good, he was feeding a family, he was clothing the both of us, and that he was ensuring a lasting legacy for the Fernandez familia.” A raspy, humorless snort erupted from her. “Now, I know that he kept the truth from me…and what an ugly truth it is.” She moved her leg, tensing to stand, but his hand on her thigh kept her in place. She leveled a glare at him, glittering with unspoken bitterness. But he knew it wasn’t directed at him.

  “If I knew then what I know now…” She halted her words, closing her eyes. Twin tears leaked from beneath her lashes, spilling onto her cheek.

  Reaching up, Saban used his thumb to gently brush those tears away. To his shock and pleasure, she leaned into his hand, pressing her cheek into his palm.

  His own voice lost to the typhoon of sensations roiling in his chest, he could only choke out, “What would you have done, my Essa?”

  Her eyes still closed, her warm cheek still cradled in his hand, she murmured, “I would have killed him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It had been nine days, seven hours, and forty-four minutes since he’d last heard news of his darling Essa. And now, the man standing before him had no new news to report.

  “You mean you left her behind,” he remarked, stopping his pacing to pivot and face Captain Noriega. He knew his expression of cool and calm was misleading, giving the captain the impression of safety. But the captain was far from safe.

  “Si, Comandante. I did not know she was aboard the ship. If I had known, I would have guarded her with my own life. This I swear,” the captain said, his brown eyes filled with fear and anticipation—anticipation of what his commander might do to him for leaving the Lady Esperanza behind to die in Wales.

  “Noriega…” Ernesto intoned.

  “Si, Comandante,” the man replied, bowing with a snap.

  “Did you see my sister’s corpse?” Dios, he hated hearing that word in regard to his precious treasure.

  Noriega’s shoulders straightened, his back rigid, his face pinched. “No, Comandante. The Welshmen are known to kill all those who oppose them, so…”

  The tide of disgust and rage flooded him, filling his mouth with the taste of bitter failure.

  “You believe the Ganwyd o’r Mor killed my darling Esperanza?” It was less a question than a condemnation against Noriega.

  The man hesitated, his skin beading with sweat before he nodded. “Si, Comandante. If she was dressed as a man, as Marion reported, then she would have been with the rest of the crew when they boarded the Torriwr.”

  Sour sick coated his tongue, the desire to gut the man before him nearly lancing the humanity from his soul—what was left of it, anyway.

  “And the rest of the crew…” He waited, the silence beating at him with a heartbeat of its own. “What happened to them?”

  Captain Noriega had the grace to look guilty, the disgust and grief mingling in his expression. “From what we have heard of the Welshmen, we have little hope that any of the crew survived.”

  Ernesto sucked in a breath, the stench of unwashed body striking his nostrils as the captain moved nervously.

  “My sister was among those who boarded the Welsh ship,” he stated, trying to understand the words he refused to acknowledge.

  “We believe so, yes,” Captain Noriega replied hesitantly, his gaze fixed to his commander’s expression.

  “What you are telling me is that my sister, my darling treasure, my precious possession…is dead,” he drawled, his voice void of emotion, for all his anger and hatred was boiling in his blood, firing up the very soul of him.

  Captain Noriega didn’t answer, but Ernesto had seen enough to know what the cowardly bastard would say.

  Waving his hand dismissively, he intoned, “Go. Resupply La Corona. Prepare to ship out in two days. We sail for Port Eynon Bay.”

  “Sir?” Noriega blurted, his eyes wide, his face pale.

  “I will see her body with my own eyes.”

  She cannot be dead. I refuse to believe my treasure is dead. I have waited too long, have planned everything down to the smallest detail—the most important part of my scheme
cannot be dead now. Not when I need her the most. Not when the culmination of my greatest success is only a few weeks away.

  His plan, fifteen years in the making, had started as an audacious dream, really. At twenty, he’d been tired of the lack of respect, and a marked diffidence for his family name, a name that should have made all men bow at his feet and kiss his boots. But…because of that arrogant bastard, Ioan Rees, his family had fallen from grace, and he had been left to pick up the pieces.

  And that is what he’d done, by tooth and nail, and plotting and deception.

  Weary, he slumped into the chair behind his desk, his gaze unable to focus on the charts, maps, or correspondence set before him. Without his Essa, none of those things meant anything. Without Essa, his plans were ruined.

  “Oh, my beautiful Esperanza…you cannot be dead. I have yet to taste you as I have wanted to since the day you became a woman.” He could well remember that day…she had just finished her fencing lesson and her blouse was soaked in sweat and clinging to her young, high, plump breasts, her nipples erect from exertion. The memory, even after five years, still had the power to make his cock ache and his balls grow heavy.

  He knew one taste of his sweet Essa would never be enough.

  And if she was alive, even as a captive of the Ganwyd o’r Mor, he would get her back, even if he had to kill every last one of the filthy Welsh to do it.

  She is mine.

  The deck of La Corona was crowded, the crew moving here and there, tying knots, shouting directions, and climbing the masts and rigging. From where he was standing at the polished railing, starboard side, he could look out over the sea, viewing the expanse that seemed to stretch out forever. The boards beneath his feet groaned, mirroring the silent groanings of his body. Despite his claims of being a man of the sea, Ernesto was not a man of the sea. He had spent little time on a ship, and his lack of experience was all the more obvious now that he was two days out from San Sebastian and ready to jump overboard just to stop the twisting in his gut.

  He was a nobleman, dammit, he wasn’t meant for the sea. He was meant to rule over sprawling estates, gaining power, wealth, and glory as a man of his intelligence and breeding should. When he’d begun to commit piracy under the flag of the Demonios, he had never meant to set foot on a ship, not when he had hired men who could do it—though getting the money to hire the first group of men had required he sell his abuela’s wedding ring. The ring, an emerald as big as a lima bean, had been in the Gabon family for generations…and he would get that ring back. It belonged on Essa’s finger.

  Above him, the sky was clear, the sun bright. The breeze was strong, though, which pushed against the sails, propelling the ship along. According to Captain Noriega, they were making excellent time, and what usually took five to six days might take them only four. That meant he would know the truth sooner than he’d expected.

  And that truth damned well better be that Essa was alive, waiting for him to come to her—as a good older “brother” would.

  Brother, he inwardly sneered, he was no more her brother than the man beside him, and his feelings for her, his hunger for her, was far from brotherly.

  He wanted to sink his cock into her, filling her up to the brim with all the years of desire and yearning, of waiting and unslaked lust. He’d wanted her but couldn’t touch her, not until her twenty-first birthday. Only seven days until then, until he could claim her properly…and all that came with her.

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth and a short burst of laughter rumbled from his chest. The man beside him—Pedro—looked at him askance, his bushy eyebrows furrowing at the glare Ernesto shot him.

  “Have you nothing better to do than stand there staring at me?” he asked the man who stiffened and mumbled something under his breath. Ernesto didn’t care what the bastard thought of him, only that he did what he was ordered to do in a timely and efficient manner, with vigilance and excellence.

  Unlike when he allowed Essa to slip through his fingers and onto an enemy ship.

  Pedro turned to walk away but Ernesto’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

  “The raid…why did it fail?” He’d meant to ask Noriega but he’d been so caught up in the loss of his Essa that all else had fallen to the wayside. When he’d discovered that his darling treasure had been left behind, potentially at the cost of her life, he didn’t care what happened to the other men or why. But now…he wanted to know how his plan had gone awry so terribly.

  Pedro tensed, turning back to face Ernesto, his eyes guarded.

  “It was a trap,” he replied evenly, his tone chillingly calm. “They had set a trap for us, knowing we would take the bait. Our spies within the port knew nothing of it, they only knew that the sloop was loaded down with several months’ worth of smuggled goods.” Pedro’s lips curled into an ugly grimace. “We lost good men because we did not wait and watch as I had advised.”

  How dare the pendejo sneer at him, his commander? He had been the one to risk everything to land a blow against the Welsh pigs. It was his ship, his crew, his money that he’d laid on the line. And it was all for naught—and he’d lost his precious Essa in the process.

  “Do not dare question my decisions—now or ever. If it were not for me, you would be robbing peasants outside of Madrid and living in squalor with the rest of your familia. Do not forget that it was I who hired you, gave you a purpose, filled your purse with gold and your belly with rich foods. You owe me your life, Pedro, and I will damned well take it when I see fit. All of you owe me your lives, and if some were lost in the pursuit of my plans, then that is a loss I have already calculated and found acceptable.”

  Pedro sucked in a breath, his brown eyes narrowing to slits in a face that would rival a hound’s for its hideousness.

  Without another moment gazing at Pedro’s stormy face, Ernesto turned back to gazing out over the sea. He heard the sounds of Pedro stomping away, no doubt to grumble about his commander to anyone who would listen. Well, let him grumble, let him complain. He was nothing without Ernesto’s good graces and gold.

  What is left of it, that is. His stomach, which was churning with the movement of the sea, began to twist into intricate knots. For years, he had lived with the façade of wealth, using the funds from his smuggling and piracy to keep his Essa in silks and furs, and to pay the men well for their loyalty. He was many things but a spendthrift was not one of them. He made sure that his captains and crew were well-paid and had the best of whatever they’d taken from the ships they plundered. But with all the money leaving his purse, there was little left.

  Within the next few months—without a new surge in income from a large score of goods—he would be living on dust and fetid water, and he would find himself without captains or crew. Certainly, he could sell the ships and make enough to keep the castillo running for another year or two, but he refused to consider such an outcome. He was of noble blood, and he deserved to live a life of ease and pleasure.

  And Essa was his key to everything he ever wanted. Money, land, property, and nights of ecstasy between her thighs.

  Oh, Essa, mi amo, I will find you and I will claim you, and then we will live as royalty. This, I promise you.

  As if in acknowledgement of his vow, the sky that had, moments ago, been clear and blue, was quickly filling with thick, heavy, dark gray clouds, rising from the horizon like a wool blanket. The warm breeze turned sharp with a cold that snapped against his cheeks.

  He shuddered, the excited heat of his thoughts doing little to keep off the chill that slithered through his blood.

  “Storm’s coming!” someone shouted, but he didn’t need that announcement—he could see it with his own eyes. The sky darkened to near black, the sea began to throw the ship about, like a child with a toy, and the breeze clawed against his face, making his eyes water.

  “Strike the royals!” came another shout and the crew moved to do as commanded. The ship veered, turning the bow into the wind and the rising waves. Ernesto b
it back a curse. His grip on the railing was tight but he managed to turn toward the helm where the captain was at the large wheel. The man stood, his feet planted as he held the wheel in place.

  Caught up in the movement and mania of the storm battering the ship, Ernesto didn’t catch many of the bellowed commands, but he knew the captain and the crew were doing what they did best.

  “Reef the mainsail!”

  “Secure those ropes, men!”

  “Dammit, men, lash those barrels!”

  “Strike the mainsail!”

  The orders seemed to come in rapid succession, though, in truth, it felt like epochs had passed as the sea rose, the ship tossed, and the crew scrambled to save their lives.

  “Comandante!” Pedro appeared beside him. “Get below and shut the door. Close the portholes and hunker down—this one is a beast!”

  Bristling at the man’s daring—ordering him about as if he were one of the crew—he was caught off guard when a wave slammed into the ship, tossing him away from the railing and blasting him with a deluge of frigid water.

  Sputtering, Ernesto struggled to find his bearings, his legs wobbling as they fought to keep him upright. His eyes stinging with the briny water, he made his way in the general direction of the stairs, practically tripping down them and into the captain’s quarters.

  Once inside, he did as Pedro had instructed, shutting the door, closing and securing the portside porthole, and curling into a bedraggled and sodden wet ball on the bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Warmth spread through her as Essa grinned down at the little girl whose cheeks were rosy and whose eyes were glittering with innocent excitement.

  “Now, Merida, I think you would look beautiful with this ribbon in your hair,” Essa remarked, her voice filled with the appropriate amount of feigned awe. Holding the silk ribbon aloft, Essa watched as the little girl’s gaze landed on the soft pink ribbon.