The Winds of Fate (30 page)

“Safe aboard the
Golden Gull
with Ames, sailing aside us.”

Claire laid her head back on the pillow relieved for Cookie and Lily.

“When I return, my sweet wife, I’ll expect value for my money.” He slammed the door. A latch clicked as he locked it.

The
Sea Scorpion
made good time, cutting through the sea, pressed upon by favored trade winds. Devon drank deeply of the cool night air, hoping that it would help to free his mind. He wrapped his fingers around the aft rail grimly reflecting the milky path cast by the moon across infinite dark water. How many times had his eyes traveled that path, a path with no definitive end? In the distance, he watched his commandeered ship, the
Golden Gull
partnering its progress, a testament to Dooley’s shipwright skills and entrusted to Ames’ able command.

Her scent still clung to him. Although far from unpleasant, it unsettled him, the vow of his revenge upon her person unresolved. But beneath the fresh scent of lavender, the haunting essence of the woman he craved. Despite the peace and beauty of the night, he fell prey to the echo of her cruel words which named him thief and a pirate.

His thoughts leapt round him like a serpent swallowing its tail. He had strove this past year to have some sense of civilization. He held his crew to tight moral principles, a strict code of conduct which everyone was bound. He deplored falling into the debauchery of regular pirates and thought he had that decadence beat until Claire landed on his ship. His wife, a stranger in many ways still exerted the same intoxicating pull on his desires, damn her. But he had to manage his impulses, devil take it. He wouldn’t throw her on her back and take advantage
of her the minute he had her in his power, no matter how starving his senses screamed to do just that.

Despite the show of courage he so admired, he had seen the fear in her eyes when she faced down Le Trompeur. He had seen the fear in her eyes when she challenged him in the cabin. Nor had he missed her frantic misery and dread when he left her.

He forced down a stab of pity that spiraled up through the murky sea of lust inside him. Her plight resulted from her own devices. If he’d browbeaten her into submission within hours of capture, then so be it. She deserved to stew in her wickedness. Perhaps the kiss hadn’t been a complete disaster after all. Yet she brought him to his knees without really trying, damn her. But why should he care what she thought?

His life was careening out of control. He hated the sensation of helplessness his existence brought, and he raged against his desire. Like a lovesick fool, he strove to lick the crumbs she threw his way. She made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. Thief and pirate she called him. Her words rang repeatedly in his mind, a hammer banging on an anvil.

Hell. So he made a mistake in bringing her aboard his ship. No harm had been done. He would be more cautious in the future. He’d keep his sanity by leaving her strictly alone.

He could do that. He could.

And for his next feat, he’d sprout wings and fly.

He shifted to relieve his discomfort. Hell, he had to have her. Desire wreaked havoc on his resolution to stay away from her. His mind howled to take her. And had she not, for several heated moments revealed she wanted the act as much as he had? Perhaps his mind exaggerated her needs on that score.

He shifted once more and attempted to quell the storm surging in his blood. He’d have her soon enough, he promised.

But he did not want her later.

He desired her now.

So why did it feel like he was stretched out on the rack of self-contempt? Why had he listened to her blasphemous tirade? Why was
it he who was the victim? Devon Blackmon, the ruthless Black Devil Pirate who sailed a flotilla of pirate ships should bow and scrape to a mere slip of a girl who still regarded him like the plague. He would be the laughingstock of his men if they were to know of his care for her.

Oh yes, he could offer her wealth beyond measure, but stability lay far beyond his reach. At war with humanity, he was an outlaw, a homeless outcast, his only freedom exercised on the seas, his destiny shaped over the next horizon.

Devon had taught her the secrets of pleasure. He had not taken her womanhood owed to him by right of her true flesh and blood husband. It flayed at him like a hundred cat-o’-nine-tails.

Bloodsmythe joined him at the rail and spoke into the quiet. “I had lean years with my wife until she died with the fever. Those years gave me a strong thirst for a better life. And I found it with her.” He let that thought drift over to Devon to ruminate. A useless activity, Devon preferred to abandon.

The conjured image of Claire, his wife, in his bed, all for the taking and he nothing but a thief and pirate, echoed through his mind. A demented laugh sprang from his throat. His gunner looked sharply to him. Bloodsmythe’s confusion laughable.

“Ye’ve done nothing to make ye regret have ye, Captain?”

“Not a damned thing.”

Bloodsmythe looked at him a minute, then looked out to sea. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that maybe ye need a bit more to occupy that clever brain of yours. Do ye ever dream to settle down, take a wife, create a child or two of your own?”

“Don’t you think you ought to be taking your own advice?”

“Aye. With a good woman,” the old salt said. “One that can cook and fill my stomach. And while we’re on the topic of food. Since our cook could never curb his sickness of the sea, and departed for dry land, our victuals are nothing to recommend, observing the fact, Young Johnnie has tried his best. The men are in a terrible temper.”

“And so am I.”

Bloodsmythe viewed him with a skeptical eye. “But your temper comes not from bad food. Do you think I’m blind? Ye’re as touchy as a stallion locked in a barn with a burr under his saddle. Ye can’t take your eyes off of her for one moment. I saw it during the plague. I saw it every time she came near to where we were working on that purgatory of Jamaica. And here you come like Lord Triton, sweeping her up off a wave, all for your taking, and you don’t know what to do about it. Marry the wench and get it over with.”

“Watch your tongue, old man. What I do or don’t do is no business of yours.” Devon wanted to grab his gunner by the shirt and toss him across the sea.

“I see ye’re Irish temper brewing. Sulking won’t do you any good.”

Devon stewed in frustration. The bell rang for the watch to change. Wouldn’t Bloodsmythe’s eyes bulge if he were to know he was already married to her? Without turning his head, Devon spoke to his old friend. “It’s a long story. Complicated.”

“If I remember, most things with you, Captain always were.” He clasped his hand upon Devon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and then bid him goodnight.

Claire watched the wick burn low. Her spirits flagged. Soon she would be cast in darkness, tied to a bed with no avenue of escape. Her prison walls remained layered−ropes that bound her, a locked cabin, a ship full of pirates, and their brutal master at the helm, beyond that lay miles of endless ocean. Claire looked about the cabin, refusing to remain a prisoner. The pearls he dropped lay cold upon her. His words lashed at her.

Claire worked her right hand free. She smiled with the small miracle.

In the table next to the bed, the drawer where he scarfed up his pearls remained open. If only she could reach inside to find something sharp to cut the remainder of her bonds.

Pivoting her weight, Claire strained against the ropes and stretched her free hand as far as possible, rewarded that the drawer lay within
her grasp. Pleased with her triumph, she reached in and fingered the contents. Her heart sank, coins, papers, nothing. Tears came to her eyes. She condemned self-pity and stretched further, rifling under a book. Surely, her arm would detach. Her fingers seized upon something smooth and sharp. A knife. Claire closed her eyes, her hand secured upon the hilt. Claire let out a deep breath and sawed the rope, binding her one arm. In seconds, she cut free. Giddy with her success, she vowed to wipe that arrogant smile off his face.

Boots pounded in the passageway. Claire shoved the knife under the pillow, winding her freed hand in the rope. Keys jangled in the lock. The door opened. Bloodsmythe. She remembered him from her uncle’s plantation. He had assisted Cookie during the plague. He glanced at her bonds, and his eyebrows shot up. His face turned as red as a sunset. Saying nothing, he lifted her trunk into the cabin then departed, locking the door behind him.

There would be no rescue from that quarter. Claire retrieved the knife and cut the remainder of her bonds. To get the circulation going, she rubbed her wrists and ankles, not even trying to suppress a slight groan.

Free for the first time, she explored Devon’s cabin. Luxurious in appointments, it possessed bright tapestries, a padded settle under glazed windows, warm oak furnishings, and a massive bed with artfully carved sea-stars, mermaids and shells that testified to the fanciful tendencies of its creator. Or more, the ostentatious taste of the original Spanish owner.

Claire looked through his closet and chest. Awed by the rich fabrics he now wore, she fingered the fine silk of his white shirts. Maps and charts were spread over a desk. What did pirates do in their spare time? Looking at the rows of books cradled in shelves, she traced her fingers over the spines, reading the titles. His library would impress Lily. Claire pulled the
The Whole Art of Navigation
off the shelf, sat down and stretched on the cushions of the settle to study. Too agitated to concentrate on Mr. Kelly’s alterations, she began to pace the cabin.

Claire tapped her finger on her lips. The harrowing rescue proved a man that could do the things Devon did, earned his rank as master seaman. To thrust his ship against the
Mer Un Serpent
and turn the table
on Le Trompeur was assuredly reckless and to be grudgingly respected. His genius for naval tactics already legendary grew to larger proportions, creating a sensation in Europe, yet straining diplomatic relations between England and Spain. Bitterly, she mused, he had become the object of worship in the eyes of the savage Brethren of the Coast. As a result, he was targeted in a massive manhunt by the Crown Heads of Europe. The consequence of such disadvantaged fame fashioning him the symbol of the depredations of the buccaneers in the Caribbean they desired to eradicate. She disapproved his exploits, yet remained thankful he had saved her from Le Trompeur’s grasp. She shuddered at the thought of being in the hands of that vile pirate.

The night’s event’s paid a toll on her nerves. She lay down on Devon’s bed, pulled up the covers and inhaled his scent, allowing weariness to envelope her.

Claire awoke to stirrings up above. She threw open her trunk and rummaged to the bottom, satisfied to see if the deed was safe. She pulled off her torn dress and donned a new one, brushing out her long tresses in front of a mirror. He did not return in the night. Why did it bother her? Devon needed a lesson. A small smile played about her lips. She picked up her dagger and in the meager light, picked the lock, a skill she had developed in a childhood game played with Lily. Devon shouted orders up on deck. Her smile widened when the latch clicked and sprung open. Now, my fine Captain is when you get your comeuppance.

Elated by her mission, Claire walked onto the deck, the breeze lifting her long hair. The sun aloft was a great golden pearl, full and dazzling. The day could be any other day, sailing on a sea-voyage except that she was a prisoner on a pirate ship. She navigated across the deck with her head held high. Her heart raced. Her plans weren’t entirely thought out, but the reality of assembling any plans became irrelevant if one’s enemy was a powerful man. And a pirate of Devon’s infamous stature was about as powerful as a man could be.

As Claire kept up with her stroll, she became aware more eyes settled upon her. Her discomfort grew as they quit their chores and
stared. Some of them were admiring, some curious. These men were not like the civilized seamen of merchant ships or the King’s navy. Her plan to provoke Devon faltered. He was nowhere about. Claire moved to the taffrail. She had made a mistake and she sat upon a cask, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt to watch the waves skimming against the ship as if she had nothing else in the world to do. Calming her nerves and pretending the whole thing was a nightmare did not help either, especially when several pirates crowded around her.