The Pirate Bride (21 page)

“He seems a fine man.”

Cassandra shook her head with worry. “Men…they feel they must be noble. That life is nothing if they are not. They don’t know how to use guile and their wits. Women’s weapons. If he thinks I am in danger…he acts rashly. A woman can wait. She knows patience. She knows that some battles are best lost so that a war may be won. It’s something we are taught by the very society in which we live.” Her last words sounded bitter, and Red wondered if there had been times when Cassandra longed for a different life than that dictated by her position.

Yet somehow the words seemed important to her, as well.

Had she forgotten there were weapons other than guns and blades?

Perhaps it was a lesson she should make a point of recalling.

L
OGAN REACHED
the ship. The waves slapped around him, washing him against the hull. He swam around it, seeking the trail of the hempen ladder he prayed was still hanging over the side. Had the remaining crew hoisted it?

The darkness wasn’t to his advantage, but he looked up to find the davits that had held the tenders silhouetted against the sky and used their positions to orient himself, and there, at last, he found the ladder.

Carefully, he looked up. No one was in sight, so, grasping the ladder, he pulled his knife from the sheath at his ankle and slowly, carefully, made his way up.

When he had almost reached the level of the deck, he paused and looked back to shore.

All seemed quiet.

He could just see Blair Colm seated near the fire, his back against a palm. Did he sleep? Or had Red’s appearance unnerved him enough to keep him awake?

Logan kept climbing and, as silently as possible, checked the immediate area, then eased himself over the rail. He looked toward the helm, but there was no one at the wheel. Since he had come this far undetected, he reasoned there was no man in the crow’s nest, either.

He hunched low against the ship’s rail and inched along, watching. Finally, as he neared the stairs to the deck, he saw a man on guard. The fellow was lax; he was armed, but his pistols were set in holsters that hung low on his hips, and his hands were on the rail.

Logan felt a moment’s unease. He had killed in battle.

He had never killed in cold blood.

He had to remind himself that these men had been part and party to the murders of dozens of men aboard various ships, even if they had not been with Blair Colm when he had massacred whole villages in the name of King William.

He
was
killing in self-defense.

With that, he moved as quietly as the air and came at the man from the back. He felt the hot blood spurt over his fingers as he slit the man’s throat.

He was tempted to push the dying man overboard, but he didn’t want any corpses washing up on shore with the dawn and warning Colm, and so he dragged the body back behind two supply barrels shoved against the rail, taking the man’s two fine pistols and sword for his own.

One man down. How many more remained here on the ship?

He decided to explore the deck first.

He almost tripped over the man by the rail near the mainmast. He was sprawled against it, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed.

The position was bad, but he had to remove each crew member as he came upon him. He held his breath for a moment, then struck, going swiftly, straight and hard for the jugular vein. The man’s eyes opened. Too late. The blood gushed. Logan was covered in it this time. But slitting the throat ensured a quick death, and a silent one, severing the vocal cords. The man died in less than a minute.

A surprised minute, one that Logan thought might haunt him forever. Those eyes, just staring…

There would be no way, come the light, to hide the pool of blood. But in the darkness it might look like shadow, should the rest of the crew rise. He laid the body against the rail and hid it with a pile of rigging.

He heard voices then; two men walking toward him from the captain’s cabin.

“Did you not enjoy Lord Bethany’s surprise when Captain Colm assured him that
he
would hang for a pirate?” one asked.

“Still and all, it gets a bit irksome, don’t ye think?” asked the other. “We should have killed the old bastard with the others. And the daughter! A rare beauty. Why must we keep the girl all safe and pure? She should be booty to be shared, like everything else.”

“Well, she will be booty. I heard he planned on offering her to a Moroccan prince—who will tire of her eventually, of course. Maybe we can make a deal to get the girl back…used,” the first man said, clearly amused.

Logan felt his jaw lock, and any sickness he had felt at the thought of killing these men faded. But there were two now, and he dared not let them see him. This would demand finesse.

He let them walk by.

As they ambled along the portside rail, he moved. Silently, swiftly, he crept behind the rigging he had just used to cover the last corpse.

As they turned and walked back, musing on Cassandra’s feminine assets, he spoke from the cover of the rigging.

“Mates!”

They turned.

“Over here.”

He waved the arm of the dead man.

“It’s Brewster,” one of the men said.

“Get up, you drunkard,” the second one ordered.

“I need your help…fer the love of God…please…” Logan said, slurring his words.

As the two came forward, Logan barely breathed, calculating the perfect moment to strike.

The first of the men was frowning; he had stepped in the pool of blood.

“What is this…?”

“Help!” Logan repeated.

Both men came closer and leaned down.

Logan shoved the corpse toward them. Before they could cry out, he attacked, with a sword to the neck of the first, his knife to the neck of the other.

His knife had severed the vocal cords of the second man.

The other, despite the gash to his throat, didn’t die as quickly.

He staggered, falling against the rail, as Logan swung again.

The man’s hands were at his throat as he stared accusingly at Logan. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he fell to his knees, then slumped down. Dead.

Four.

Four were gone.

He closed his eyes. For a moment, just a moment, as the sea breeze failed to waft away the smell of blood on the air, he remembered the past.

Remembered it as if it had been just yesterday….

His father, riding away…

His mother, turning to fight…

Dying.

This was it. The smell of blood he could never forget….

He straightened, stepping away. Let them stay where they lay. Now he had to carefully calculate where he would find the rest of the ship’s onboard crew.

The master’s cabin, perhaps, where these two had come from. While Blair Colm was on shore, his men—who no doubt had their moments of envy—might well be enjoying his private quarters.

Silently, his blades in hand, he started toward the captain’s door.

I
N TIME
, C
ASSANDRA
, too, fell asleep. Red didn’t mind being on guard; she couldn’t have slept, anyway, so she was happy to stay awake, ready to do her best to divert any trouble that might appear.

It was amazing what hope could do for the human soul.

Allow it to rest.

She kept looking below the canvas cover, out to sea.

So far, nothing. No sign of trouble from the ship.

Had Logan made it out there? He was a good swimmer, so she had to believe he had the strength to reach the boat safely, but what if he had been brought down by some small danger he’d never imagined?

Red-legged Jeeves, a privateer during Queen Anne’s war, had met many a Spanish ship and survived, then been killed when one of his own rigging lines had snapped.

What if Logan had met with a shark on the way to the ship?

No, she had seen sharks many times. They attacked only when there was blood, and Logan hadn’t been bleeding.

What if he had scraped himself on the coral as he passed over the reef?

At the very least, she was certain he hadn’t been caught aboard ship, for undoubtedly the alarm would have been sounded if an intruder had been found.

She looked around the beach, taking care to lie on the ground and look beneath the canvas, rather than through the open “doorway.” Most of the pirates—that supposedly decent crew sailing under the Union Jack—were still sleeping off their rum, but she saw that the one called Nathan had taken his orders to heart. He was pacing the shore, occasionally stopping to look out to sea.

He kept his hands constantly on his gun belt, ready to draw at the slightest provocation.

And Blair Colm?

She couldn’t see him and wondered if he slept. She doubted it. She had certainly taken him by surprise tonight, but even so, she would live—unless he decided she should die. He didn’t consider her to be much of a danger. In his mind, she was just a slip of a girl.

No threat at all, and worth a fair sum.

Unless he figured out that she was Red Robert.

A chill swept through her. He didn’t know, and she didn’t want him to find out…until seconds before he died.

She closed her eyes tightly and prayed that there was justice not only in the next world, but in this one, as well.

She heard a soft sound and surveyed the shelter.

Cassandra was awake again, and she was praying.

Red considered joining her.

Please God…

It was as far as she got.

If He was out there somewhere, He knew what she needed.

T
HERE WERE MULTIPANED
windows on either side of the door to the captain’s cabin, but to Logan’s relief, the thick curtains within had them blocked.

He inched along the outer wall, then ducked low to try to see inside past the edges of the fabric.

As he had suspected, the crew were within, four of them, dicing. Luckily they seemed oblivious to anything going on outside.

He watched one man roll and the three others groan when he won. The money flew about the table.

“Double or nothing, winner take all,” insisted one fellow, angered by his loss. He was about forty, perhaps older, and had long graying hair held back by a striped cotton band. His fingers were bejeweled. In the flickering lamplight within, Logan could see that one of the rings was an insignia with a family crest.

A Scottish coat of arms.

He couldn’t help but wonder just how, when and where the man had acquired the ring. He knew that the scent of blood clinging to him wasn’t imaginary, and once again it sent him careening into the past. The men’s voices brought him back to the present.

“Double or nothing, when I’m already sitting on all the money?” asked the man who had just won. Slim and wiry, he sported two gold-capped teeth and a gold earring. His head was clean-shaven.

“Coward,” the one with the rings accused.

“Nay, just smart,” chortled the third crewman. This one was stout with deep jowls.

The fourth man, middle-aged, well-muscled, with wisps of dark hair and a heavy beard, offered his opinion. “Oh, don’t leave a fellow cryin’ in his grog. Once we’ve sold off the girl—and with that ransom intended for that Laird Haggerty, we’ll all be sitting fine enough—while we watch old Horatio Bethany dance the hempen jig.”

Logan felt his fingers twitching at his knife. But as he kept his eye on the foursome, he reminded himself that there were most likely more men belowdecks. He could create a minor disturbance that would draw these four out, but if he had to resort to pistols, he would certainly rouse any others on the ship.

What to do?

Go below first?

No, because he didn’t want to take his eyes off this group. They were drinking, but not drunk. And they all appeared able-bodied and quick enough.

As he stood debating and the four argued about continuing the play, the man with the jowls suddenly rose. “S’cuse me, mates. I’ve a need for fresh air—and the slosh bucket.”

“Piss over the side, you louse. Spare the man on loo duty,” the man with the rings said.

“Fine, I’ll piss in the night breeze.”

Logan straightened against the cabin wall instantly, quickly shifting his plan of action, grateful for the man’s call of nature.

He held still and silent while the door opened and the fellow walked out. He was tall, very tall. And big. Strong as an ox, Logan decided. He would have to be very sure and very quick.

The big fellow looked about, then ambled toward the rail. “Brewster?” he called out. He swore when he wasn’t immediately answered.

He stopped on his way to the rail, and Logan swore silently to himself and hoped the fellow wasn’t going to investigate.

He crept silently behind the big man, his knife at the ready. When his quarry stopped, Logan stopped.

“Brewster?” the sailor said again. “You sorry excuse for a man! You’re supposed to be on guard duty. What if some ship happened upon us, eh?”

He walked forward.

In another moment he would stumble on the bodies.

There was no choice for it. Logan prepared to spring. As soon as the big man bent down to look closer at the bodies of his fallen comrades, Logan made his move. He landed on the man’s back and drew the knife across his throat.

He didn’t die easily.

Even with his life’s blood gushing from him, he managed to stand and throw Logan from his back. But the element of surprise, and the man’s own actions, had given Logan the advantage. No man, no matter how big or strong, could survive a severed jugular.

Logan, tossed down hard on the deck, remained still as the fellow staggered, tried to speak…and fell at last.

He would not be laughing at the hanging of Lord Bethany, that was a certainty.

Logan quickly gathered his wits and got back to his feet, careful to keep a distance from the slippery pools of blood the man had left behind. Looking past the dead man, he noticed the barrels set against the rail at the bow.

He looked toward the cabin. He could hear them arguing.

He strode to the first barrel and pried it open with the bloody blade of his knife.