The Siren's Song (3 page)

She unraveled her arms from around the mast. The man’s hand outstretched farther toward her, beckoning her to grab a hold. She reached for him, her ominous savior.

The wind lashed at her. The rain shifted. A black wave rose from the darkness and crashed down upon the
Rowena.
Her fingers brushed against his before the breaker knocked her back.

She tumbled, the rush of water rolled her, and she came to a stop facedown. Gilly gulped for air, and the brine she swallowed burned her nose and throat. The man’s firm grasp dug under her arms and quite suddenly she stood on her own two feet.

He spun her around. “Are you all right?” He wore no look of concern. Rather, the deep cut in his brow suggested anger.

“I…” The word rasped over her raw throat, sending her into a fit of coughs.

He bent to peer closer and it was then she realized how he towered over her. So tall he was, taller even than Hyde.

She swallowed a few times to coat her sore throat before managing two words. “I’m fine.”

“Right. We’ve got to get off this ship, now.” He tugged at her arm and shoved her forward, alarming her by his rough handling.

The ship bemoaned, shuddered and at once tipped. She lost her footing, bringing the stranger down with her. Together, they washed down the decking. White-capped water devoured the ship’s edge. It stretched out to receive them. Her foot bashed into the submerged railing, stopping her from sliding into the raging sea. Gilly yelped at the sharp pain spiking up her ankle.

She cursed. Or was that the blackguard who cursed? She glanced at him and in a bolt of lightning could have sworn amusement flickered across his face.

He snatched at her bodice and yanked her to him. The force knocked the air from her lungs. She stared up into his eyes. Yes. Amusement definitely sparked in them. He enjoyed their predicament far too much.

“Hold on,” he said. “They’re coming.”

The longboat plowed through the swells. Four men manned the oars, but the boat’s speed and control came from the colossal black man at the rear. So large a man, it was a wonder his bulk didn’t sink the boat. He, alone, maneuvered the craft adjacent to the tilting ship.

A sailor in the boat extended a hand to her.

“Get in.” Her savior shoved her arm toward the waiting man.

Gilly reached out for him. Her wrist seemed so pale, so contrasted against the black sea.
Oh, God.
My bag!
Where’s my bag?
Her chest constricted. She couldn’t breathe. The drawing string must have slipped off her wrist when the wave knocked her down.

Panic-stricken, she whipped her head around and searched the madness of the stormy sea overtaking the perishing ship. The gale wailed louder in her ears, but she could no longer feel the rain or the splash of the waves.

Where is it? I must get it back.

Planking, debris, water, all blended together, devoid of any color. The rapid rise and fall of the surf separated them into identifiable objects. Only when the sky bestowed flares of light could she see beyond a man’s single pace.

A glimpse of purple caught her eye.
There!

Her pouch drifted along the water’s edge, bumping against the
Rowena.

“Snap to, woman!”

She ignored her dark rescuer, focusing on the drawing string snagged on a splintered board floating away in the swirling current. No! She couldn’t lose it. Just couldn’t. What had kept her alive, what was left of her life was inside that bag.

Farther out of reach her bag drifted. She batted at his grip on her, slapped at his knuckles until he released her. Her toes curled in her shoes, an attempt to grab on to the rail through her soles as she shuffled down the rail on the balls of her feet. Almost there. The water pushed the board against the ship’s bow. She squatted down, holding on to a pulley used to secure the anchor and reached for her handbag. The drawing string worked itself loose from the plank. Sloshing water pushed it away.
Must stretch farther.
Her grip loosened and her hand slid on the smooth wood of the winch. A little more. She hooked the string with two fingers and pulled the bag close enough to fist it, pressing it close to her chest.

Thank God. Thank God I didn’t lose it.

What were those blasted men shouting about?

The unforgiving sea swiped her from the ship’s frame. Into the water she fell. Below the surface, the ocean roared loud, tunneled and muffled, bearing down on her from all sides. The current forced her down. For a moment, she couldn’t move under the weight of the cool water. Panic sluiced through her. Undercurrents whisked her about, pulling her this way and that. A flux rammed her and smashed her shoulder into the ship’s hull. The hard thud quashed her fear. She kicked wildly, thrashing to reach the surface.

Where was the surface?

The water, so black, can’t see.

Flashes of light followed by the darkness confused her.

Breathe. Got to breathe. Oh merciful God, I can’t hold my breath much longer.

Chapter Three

“Damnation!”

The lass must be out of her bloody mind. What in the hell was she doing?

“Sam!”

The massive seadog stood, already with a coil of rope in hand. The other men labored to keep the boat from flipping. Sam threw one end of the rope. Drake caught the rope, thick and scratchy in his wet hands, and he tied the rope around his waist.

Risking her life like that. And for what? A damned purse! Women and their frivolous things. He would never understand.

A quick tug to secure the knot and he dove into the sea.

The rush of water washed over him crisp and cold as he sliced through the frenzied currents. Debris scraped against his arms, banged into his legs. He kicked hard to propel himself faster and felt his way through the dark billows.

Where in the bloody hell was she? The hull. The hard bend of the ship’s hull. The figurehead, a sea nymph. The smooth curvature. This was where Drake had last seen the lass. This was where she went underwater. Had she succumbed? Had the sea carried her down into its depths?

A sharp whack landed upon his cheek.

Shit.

Had he not known better, he’d believe those were stars, not lightning flashes, brightening the water. Damn, if that didn’t hurt.

He reached out and snatched the foot that walloped his face. The lass struggled, fought and kicked at him. Drake grabbed her by the waist and shot her upward. They broke through to the surface. The wind sheered across the crests, blasting sea spray into his eyes. Which way to the longboat?

The chit gasped for much needed air. She embraced his neck tightly and he held her close to his body. He took a moment to settle her, paddling in place, fighting the wrathful waves. He inhaled her hair, tasted it, salty on his lips as he steadied his own breath.

A box splashed down beside them. Items that should have been secure on the ship broke loose and tumbled into the water. Chests popped up like corks all around them springing free from the broken hull. He must get them back to the longboat.

As if on cue, Sam pulled the lifeline. The rope cut into his waist while the tide towed them in the opposite direction. But Sam would win over the sea. Damn near impossible to stop Sam. The mighty behemoth could best even the nastiest of Titans.

Once the longboat was within reach, Drake grabbed the side and allowed Sam to lift the lass up. Before he had hoisted himself completely in, the men began to row back to the
Rissa.

No sooner had he sat, the lass fastened herself to him. She clamped that blasted purse in her lap and mouthed the words “thank you.” He just nodded. He could’ve drowned saving her. Well, not likely. But nonetheless, she had put him and his men in danger with her stupidity. He should be beside himself with anger. And he had been minutes earlier. Yet his anger dissipated when she laid her head on his shoulder.

She shivered. Should he give her comfort? He faltered; his hand hovered momentarily, hesitantly, over her arm. Against better judgment, he held her.

He’d wait until they made the
Rissa,
then he’d give her the tongue-lashing she deserved. Bah. Women. Only good for one, perhaps two, night’s company. After that they become an encumbrance.

Oars smacked down into the rising swells. Ahead, the
Rissa
soared, blackened against the storm. Lightning split the sky allowing for the breadth of his fearsome ship to be seen.
His
ship, God love her.

Once back on board, he’d get to the bottom of the woman and the fiasco she created. Captain Mott kept something from him. For this, Drake was of the mind to take more than just his cargo. He might see it fit to strip the
Rowena
of her sails, rigging and anything else he could use or sell.

The men sculled the longboat alongside the
Rissa.
Drake helped the chit to the ladder. She ascended and he followed. Halfway up, her foot slipped off the rope rung. Again, Drake’s mug met with her shoe. His chop stung from her heel smacking into his cheekbone.

“Curse it!”

This chit may not be the death of him, but she certainly tried. Another blow like that and he might toss her back into the ocean.

He shoved on her arse, pushing her up and over the ship’s rail. She landed without any style at all, in a jumbled heap. He hopped on, snapped her up off the floor and hauled her midship to the
Rowena
’s waiting crew and captain.

Mott came forward, his brow knit and the frown of his mouth set low. He spared no formalities expected by a woman.

“Who the hell are you?”

The lass stepped past the captain, giving him equal discourtesy. She pushed through the
Rowena
men and stopped short of the ratlike lad. Quick as a cat, she slapped the rodent. Hard. His hand flew up to his jaw. Eyes wide with trepidation skittered to his captain.

Valeryn came to stand beside Drake, handing Drake the cutlass he removed before setting out to save the girl. Never caring much for binds, Valeryn swiped at his brown shaggy hair pummeling around his face in the wind. “Criminy, mate. You fish out a poppet? Or a jezebel?”

Drake fastened the sword at his hip with his red sash; happy to have it back again. He hated to be without any of his weapons for too long. “Don’t know. Imagine we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Abel,” Mott said. “What’s the meaning of this? Who is this woman?”

“I…I don’t know her, Captain.” Abel shrank back, rubbing at his chops.

The lass snarled. “Don’t lie, you scum.”

“I swear, Captain. I don’t know who she is.” He shook his head, keeping his wide eyes on the chit.

“Oh, yes, you do, Abel. You snuck me on that slop bucket—” she flung an arm out to the ship sinking on the reefs, “—and helped keep me hidden.”

“She’s outta her mind. I don’t know who she is.”

“That be the truth of it.” She stiffened up. “You’re going to pray you never left me behind.”

“Crazy bitch!”

“Coward!”

“Quiet!” Captain Mott joined the squabbling pair. He grabbed her by the arm. “I want answers.”

Drake placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Take heed, Captain.” Mott wisely thought better of harshly handling the chit and let go.

“Again,” he said through clenched teeth. “Who the hell are you?”

“I see no reason for propriety with such a rude tongue, sir,” she scoffed.

He huffed. “Very well, then. How about you tell me how you came by my ship?”

“I told you. Abel.” She gave the vermin a piercing glance before continuing. “He kept me down in the cargo hold.”

“She’s lying,” Abel said.

“If I’m lying, Abel, then how do you explain this?” From her pouch, she retrieved a tiny bottle intricately twined with a small rope. “Wasn’t it you who fancied this knot-work for me? Wasn’t it you who boasted of such talent?”

A stir rippled among the
Rowena
’s men. Some shook their heads. Others turned their backs to Abel.

“She-snake, you are.” Abel spat.

Abel received another fierce slap in response. Men of both crews collectively flinched.

“Ouch.” Valeryn smirked and whistled.

“Enough!” Mott said.

“Better take it easy there, cully.” Valeryn pointed to the vein manifesting across Mott’s forehead. “You’re gonna split yourself. I’m not willing to ration out extra grog to dull a headache. And Henri makes some fine grog.”

Baffled, Mott brushed his fingers on his brow, his eyes crossed as if he could see his forehead.

Drake laughed. What a spectacle this
Rowena
bunch.

“Seems to me, Mott, that what you’ve got here is a rutting whiffler and a shallow-pated castaway.” Drake studied the duo. Both young. Both desperate for something. He let his gaze linger upon the lass. In the dreary storm, he could not discern any one thing about the plain mouse. Well, other than the way her soaked dress molded to her luscious curves. Nay, the dismal rain and sea-laden winds washed her out into a shell of a woman. Her hair color, her eyes. Nothing spectacular. Though her back was straight, her shoulders sagged—a sign that she fought and lost decisive battles but had not yet given up. Aye, she wore a badge of desperation. “What do you think, V?” Drake nudged Valeryn. “These two bartering goods and services?”

“Looks that way, mate.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, sir. I am not some two-penny whore.” Her upper lip curled. “I would do no such disgusting thing. Especially with that lying cockroach.” She shuddered in disgust.

Abel snorted at her slight.

“No. I paid him, with coin, for quick passage.”

She clamped her mouth shut, aware she had probably spoken too much.

“Quick passage, you say.” Drake tilted his head in scrutiny.

She looked away.

“Why would you need quick passage?”

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Clearly. Perhaps you are being sought after.”

She promptly met his stare. “No.”

“A woman sneaking on a ship, no escort, no luggage. Hmm. I’d wager you are indeed running from something. Or someone.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, doing her best to keep her balance with the pitch and sway of the ship. “My business is that of my own.”

“Now that you are on my ship, your business is
my
business.”

“Only if I lack in my will to keep what is mine. And that, sir, is not likely.” Adding emphasis, she wagged her finger at him. “Even with your boastful cowing.”

Oh, she was a brave one to challenge him. But behind that confident jut of her chin, she surely quaked from fear. She was a lone lass stranded among dozens of men starved for the touch of soft, feminine flesh. Men like mangy, famished dogs fighting over a meatless bone. A piece of meatless bone she was, too. When was the last time she had a decent meal?

It mattered not. His men would not harm her, or any girl. Not unless they wished to die a torturous death by his hand. Never again would a woman suffer at the whim of a lecherous man. Not if he could help it. He could not say that about Mott’s crew, though he wouldn’t mind an excuse to kill someone. Nonetheless, he should remove her from topside.

He inclined his head to her. “Very well. We can continue this interrogation later.”

“You may try, but you will fail.”

“Then a sport I shall make of it.” What a night. Easy fortune and a turn at rollicking with the lass. All that he needed to complete the evening was his rum. But then rum completed his every evening.

“Henri!” He called for the manikin before he realized Henri had been standing next to him. Damn, he hated when Henri snuck up on him like that. “Get the lass out of the storm and take her to the guest quarter.”

The gruff little man huffed and rolled his beady eyes. “Here we go again,” he said. “Follow me, girlie.”

She bowed her head to Drake in gratitude, picked up her sopping skirts and trailed after Henri. Every man on board craned their necks and peered around one another to watch the lass. Couldn’t say he blamed them. Mouse or not, she moved with the grace of a woman. Well-greased and smooth, like a swivel gun on its fork.

He rubbed his still smarting cheek, unashamed that she caught him staring before she disappeared behind the hatch door. Aye. He should look forward to sporting with the chit.

A fire bolt split the night. Ah, yes. There were more important things at hand than the sway in those hips. Mott carried something more valuable than spice. Drake saw it in the water when he saved the chit. Bits of light reflected from the lightning tumbled from a floating chest, shimmering down to the sea bottom. Crystals. He’d wager on it.

Drake looked to the weeping sky. Driving raindrops spattered on his face. The gale had begun to relent and the winds had shifted, an indication that the tempest may ease her fury by marching north.

Storm or no storm, at the break of day, he’d begin with the salvage. And the sooner the better, before the currents carried the cargo on the sea’s bottom away.

He turned to Mott, speaking now with his voice little more than raised. “We’ll begin to unload your cargo come morning,” Drake said. “I expect your men will put their backs into it at your command.”

Mott wore a sort of silent acceptance in his frown, acceptance and disappointment in his unlucky rescue by Drake and the
Rissa
scoundrels. He had little choice but to help Drake in the salvage, and he well knew it. It was either that or suffer Drake as a less than hospitable host. In Drake’s opinion,
Rowena
’s captain gave up on her all too soon when the
Rissa
made her
timely
arrival. That type of skipper made Drake a happy man.

“You’ll have no trouble from me,” Mott said.

“Splendid.”

Drake aimed his attention to Mott’s men. The grog and the spot of entertainment the lass brought swapped their ragged appearances to that of wary mirth. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Abel had been inching his way back into the cluster.

Disappearing in the crowd. Not bloody likely.

“Most captains have better control over their crew.” Drake stepped forward and grabbed Abel by his shirt collar, pulling him out of the troupe. “I trust you have a rotten egg.”

Mott trained his disapproval on Abel. “No man is without a blemish, I suppose.”

Drake had to agree. There was always some fool who would test or defy authority. Especially among seafaring souls. Hell, he was one of them.

He shoved Abel forward.

“Capt’n,” Abel sputtered. “I swear—”

Mott raised a stern hand. “A liar. Even when caught with your hand in the kettle.”

“On my ship, that’s grounds for a flogging with the cat.”

Abel’s eyes darted to Drake. The knob of his throat bobbled with a hard swallow of fear. The lass was right. Abel was a coward. One that would run you through with your back turned and then flee with his tail tucked between his legs. A sound flogging might do the chap some good.

“Got a cat-o’-nine-tails needing breaking in, if you are of the mind.” Drake gestured for Jack to fetch the punishing whip.

’Twas not often anyone on the
Rissa
had the balls to cross Drake. The nine knotted leather cords hardly ever had been used. The
Rissa
’s crewmen were a loyal sort. Hard-working and honor-bound, they were. But to Drake, many of them were flawed. Too much compassion. As they haunted the Florida Keys for ships caught on the reefs and shoals, saving lives canceled out any sliver of guilt his men might harbor in claiming cargo for their own profit. He’d respect that. Respect for his men and solid leadership and profit, a great deal of profit, kept the
Rissa
healthy and strong.