Only With Your Love (2 page)

He had several aliases, but his crew knew him as Captain Griffin. Like the mythical monster with the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, he was swift, cunning, and lethal. Under his command a schooner could outsail any other vessel on the water. He sailed as he did everything else, by instinct. It was because of him that his men worked without the usual sloppiness of pirate crews, for he had made them understand that discipline and efficiency were the quickest means to the end they all desired.

Stretching out his long legs on the beach, Griffin settled his broad back against a grounded pirogue and lit a thin black cigar. After placing the cigar between his lips, he rubbed a hand over his shaggy beard and pushed back an unruly lock of hair that had fallen over his face. His blue eyes, as dark as the sea at midnight, sought and found his own ship
Vagabond
moored in the harbor.

For the past few days the schooner had been tucked in the safety of the harbor of Isle au Corneille, Crow’s Island. More than a dozen other vessels were anchored there—brigantines, gunboats, and schooners of varying sizes, all armed to the teeth. Almost thirty warehouses—not to mention a village of palmetto-thatched huts, a brothel, and a few large slave corrals—had been built amid the thick groves of shrubs and twisted oak trees on the island.

While
Vagabond
was at anchor its crew had partaken of whores and spirits, both of which were
cheap and plentiful here. Meanwhile at Griffin’s orders the cargo had been appraised and unloaded into relay warehouses. As usual, the spoils of their recent plunders had been divided equally among the hundred men who comprised his crew.

Griffin drew again on the cigar and breathed out a puff of smoke. He was relaxed but still alert. Now that he had been declared an outlaw by the American government, he could never afford to let his guard down. A year ago, his ventures had been more or less legal. Armed with letters of marque from Cartagena, a seaport on the Caribbean coast of South America, he had preyed upon Spanish commerce and garnered a considerable fortune. But along the way it had been impossible to resist capturing a few fat-bellied merchant ships from other nations he had
not
been commissioned to attack…hence the upgrading of his status from privateer to full-fledged pirate. Griffin’s only hard-and-fast rule was that his ship left American vessels unmolested. Everything else was fair game.

Feeling in need of a drink, Griffin stubbed out the cigar and rose to his feet in a lithe movement. He headed toward the crumbling fort, which contained the closest thing to a saloon the island possessed. It was a dismantled brig, set in the sand and converted into a tavern and dwelling place.

Brilliant with lamps and torchlight, the tavern, dubbed the Cat’s-head, beckoned invitingly. It was filled with unruly seamen. Many of them were Legare’s men, just in from a successful tour of the Gulf. Even in their drunken merriment the men took care to avoid Griffin as he crossed the threshold.

“Cap’n,” a voice hailed from a table in the corner.
Griffin threw a glance over his shoulder. It was John Risk, a black-haired Irishman with an able sword arm and a perpetually roguish grin. Risk was the second-in-command and the best cannoneer on Griffin’s ship. He wore a black patch where one of his eyes used to be. The eye had been lost just last year, when he had saved Griffin’s life during a hand-to-hand contest on the deck of a ship they were boarding. A hard-faced whore perched on Risk’s lap, holding a half-empty bottle of rum.

“Cap’n, are we planning to up-anchor soon?” Risk asked carefully.

Griffin reached for the bottle, took a healthy swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you that eager to leave, Jack?”

“Aye, I’ve had a bellyful o’ Legare’s men boastin’. ‘Twas six prizes they tuck on this trip…well now, didn’t we do the same not three months ago? Next time out we’ll show them rovers how to pack on sail! We’ll come back towin’ ten prize ships behind us! We’ll—”

“We’ll lay low for the time being,” Griffin interrupted dryly. “After all the recent activity, the Gulf is crawling with gunboats fresh from New Orleans.”

Risk scowled. “Aye, Cap’n. If that’s what yer gut tells ye—”

“It is.”

“Ye got the ship stocked heavy with supplies,” Risk said reflectively. “P’raps we’re finally settin’ out to the middle passage?”

An ominous glint entered Griffin’s dark blue eyes. “I don’t run slaves, Jack.”

“Aye, but the money to be made—”

“We make enough doing things my way.”

Risk shrugged cheerfully. “Can’t argue with
that, Cap’n. But the divvil knows Dominic Legare makes no scruple of it.” He lifted the rum bottle to his lips, drank deeply, and shook his head. “Six prizes,” he muttered. “Just look at that André Legare, fat bastard, with his bloody big grin, knowin’ his brother Nicky’s going to cut him a nice big slice of the spoils. For doing nothin’ except anchoring his arse in a tavern while the rest of us—”

“Enough, Jack,” Griffin said coolly, and Risk quieted.

Griffin looked in the direction Risk had pointed. André Legare was indeed wearing a grin. As usual, he was surrounded by platters of food and bottles of wine, his large belly overflowing onto his lap. His perspiring face was half-covered by a reddish beard clotted with scraps of meat and grease.

The differences between the Legare brothers were striking. Dominic was a cold, efficient shark, seeming to take pleasure in nothing except hunting and providing for his younger brother. A peculiarly self-contained man, he had never been seen with either women or boys, never drank, never acknowledged pain or required anything for his own comfort. He was excruciatingly meticulous in his dress and appearance. André, on the other hand, was a buffoon, a rotund, slovenly man with a bottomless appetite for food, drink, and women—in precisely that order.

“Dominic’s brought a new woman for André,” Risk commented. “Heard the commotion when they took her off the
Vulture—
she’s got a scream that’ll make yer ears wither up and drop off. Poor wench. Do ye know what happened to the last one Dominic gave him? She was all—”

“Yes,” Griffin said shortly, finding the subject
distasteful. Unfortunately, he’d once happened to see one of André Legare’s victims as the body was being deposited on the shore. The girl had been tortured and mutilated by André’s vicious sexual games. Those who knew of the younger Legare’s treatment of women were repelled, but no one interfered. On Isle au Corneille a man’s business was his own, unless it happened to interfere with yours.

Risk lightly jostled the prostitute on his lap. “Tell me now, darlin’, why is it I never see André Legare with his paws on ye and yer erring sisters?”

“Dominic won’t let ’im,” she replied with a saucy pout. “We makes a good profit for the Legares.”

Risk pretended dismay. “Then…in a roundabout way I’ve added to their pockets? And them already flush with money?” He pushed her off his knee, nearly causing her to land on the floor. “Shove off, darlin’…I’ve lost me yen for love tonight.” As the whore scowled, he grinned and flipped her a gold piece. “An’ do say somethin’ nice about me to the other sisters. I’ll be back again.”

Catching the coin expertly, she slanted a smile at him and strolled away with swaying hips.

Griffin had retreated into the shadowy corner, paying little attention to Risk’s antics. His attention was focused on Dominic Legare and his entourage, who had just entered the tavern and gathered at the opposite corner of the room. Bottles were passed around, brandy and rum splashing over the tables and floor. Carousing and singing drunkenly, they crowded around André while Dominic watched. A presentation was about to take place. When the last notes of the ribald
sea chantey died away, Dominic snapped his fingers and gestured to someone behind him.

A roar of approval set the walls to trembling as a woman was dragged out of concealment and thrust in front of André. She was clad in a tattered, bloodstained gown, her legs and feet bare, her arms bound behind her. She should have been in hysterics, but she was silent and outwardly calm. Her gaze flickered around the room. Griffin realized with a touch of unwilling admiration that she was trying to assess her chances of escape.

“Lovely,” Risk muttered. “A choice bit of goods, aye?”

Griffin agreed silently. She was obviously a woman of quality, with fair skin and delicate features. Her tangled blond hair glittered in the torchlight, pale and silvery and rare. He could not look away from her, could only stare while an unreasonable tide of wanting swept over him. She was too thin, breakably fragile. His taste was for robust women who would not be intimidated by a man his size. But he could not repress the thought of what it would be like to fit himself between her slender legs and crush her sweet mouth under his. The image caused a hot stirring in his loins.

Griffin folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, deciding that this was the first foolish move he had ever seen Dominic Legare make. Such a woman shouldn’t be wasted on André.

“Why the hell are we nivver findin’ women like that on
our
prize ships?” Risk wondered aloud.

After squealing in delight and wiping his greasy face on his sleeve, André caught the woman’s slim hips and jerked her down to his lap. “By
God, Dominic, this is the best one yet!” His pudgy hands roamed over her. “So sweet, so soft…I’ll make her scream for me tonight!”

“Yes,
mon frère,
do what you like with her,” Dominic said. His tone was dry, but his lips were curved in a benevolent smile.

André rubbed his hands over her hair and smooth-skinned face. “I’ve never had a woman with this color hair. I’ll have to make this one last.”

Celia closed her eyes. His breath was rank enough to make her ill. The feel of his mouth on her face was more than she could endure. As he tried to kiss her, she jerked her head to the side and bit his ear, hard enough to taste blood. Screaming in sudden surprise and rage, André let go of her. Quickly she scrambled away and darted through the tavern.

Ignoring the stinging of her bare feet, Celia made her way toward the open door, her pulse racing in powerful surges. There was shouting and laughter behind her. The side of her hip bumped painfully into a chair. It was useless to run, but she didn’t care. The will to live flooded through her, and every nerve screamed for her to escape.

Just before she reached the door a booted foot obstructed her path, and instantly her mad flight was over. She tripped and began to fall. The hard floor rose up swiftly to meet her. There was no way to save herself—her arms were tied behind her back. Suddenly she was caught and pulled upright by an unyielding arm. Gasping, she wondered how someone could have moved fast enough to stop her from hitting the floor. Her unseen rescuer steadied her by the shoulders, holding her facing away from him.

The owner of the foot that had tripped her stood up. “John Risk,” the one-eyed pirate introduced himself with a devilish grin. “Where are ye running to, darlin’? Outside is no place for a lady. Ye’d be caught and ravished in a minute by the rovers on the beach.”

“Help me,” she said urgently, while Legare’s men swarmed around them. For once her English was flawless. “I-I am a Vallerand. Take me to New Orleans. Maximilien Vallerand will reward you well for my safe return.”

Risk’s expression of insolent amusement vanished, and he looked up at the man behind her with a questioning frown.

Celia quivered as the man who held her bent to murmur in her ear. “By what claim are you a Vallerand?” His voice was deep and husky, and it sent chills down her spine. She tried to twist around to see him, but he would not let her.

“I am the w-wife of Dr. Philippe Vallerand,” she stammered. “Our ship…the
Golden Star
…They killed my husband. It was yesterday, I think…perhaps the day before.”

The fingers on her shoulders tightened, then tightened again, until she let out a cry of pain. The crushing hands relaxed their cruel grip.

“My God,” Celia heard him say softly.

“You…you have heard of the Vallerands?” she asked.

Abruptly Dominic Legare was before her, shoving Risk aside. He looked well over her head at the man behind her, who must have been exceedingly tall.

“My thanks, Captain Griffin,” Legare said “Now you will allow me to take André’s gift back to him.”

Celia was shocked to feel the man’s arm slide
around her, clasping her body just underneath her breasts. It was a gesture of ownership. The warmth of his hand burned through her dress. She looked down and saw a muscled forearm covered with black hair, revealed by a rolled-up shirtsleeve. The soft voice spoke again.

“Captain Legare, there is something we will discuss first.”

Dominic lifted his thin brows.

The room became quiet, all eyes turning toward them. It was well known that Griffin was the only man on Isle au Corneille who did not fear Dominic Legare. Until this moment the two men had avoided all semblance of confrontation. They had spoken to each other only once before, concerning a minor dispute between two men from their respective crews. Although Legare’s organization was larger and more powerful, Griffin’s enmity was not something to be taken lightly.

“I have an interest in the wench,” Griffin continued casually. “Are you open to an offer?”

Legare shook his head. “Now that André has seen her, I’m afraid that is impossible. I never disappoint my brother.”

“Fifty thousand—in silver.”

Risk’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Griffin. Slowly he sat down as if his legs would no longer support him.

“No such paltry sum would interest me,” Legare sneered. “I suppose you haven’t heard of the successful run the
Vulture
has just made.”

“A hundred thousand,” Griffin said calmly.

Ripples of astonishment went through the room, punctuated by whistles and exclamations.

Celia quivered with fear. Why did this mysterious Captain Griffin want her enough to pay a fortune? And if Legare agreed, what did Griffin
intend to do with her? The horrifying thought crossed her mind that she might be even worse off in this man’s custody than in André’s.