A Pirate's Revenge (Legends of the Soaring Phoenix) (15 page)

She drew on her magic, staring at the skating cup. Her heart fluttered, tingles swirled over her body, and warmth spread into her chest. Her hair flew behind her, and her vision grew sharper. She aimed at the shifting cup, remembering
Grand-père’s
words.

Keep the pistol to the left of your target, chérie. Keep your arm and hand steady. Keep your eye on the target.

Mariah fired the weapon, and her arm jerked. Smoke swirled around her pistol.

The cup was gone. Hailing brought her attention. Excitement reflecting in her brown eyes, Hannah ran over to her, clapping and whooping. “Mariah, you did it. You must teach me how to shoot.”

“Hannah,” Kane warned, his arms folded across his chest.

She waved her hand at him. “You have been promising me for weeks to teach me to shoot and never have. Now, I have someone who can.”

“’Twas a lucky shot,” William grumbled.

Mariah glared and shoved her pistol back into her belt. She had shot as well as he had, but he still refused to acknowledge her skill. She turned to Hannah. “
Merci
.”

Kane tapped his chin. “How old were you when your
Grand-père
taught you to shoot?”

“I have been shooting since I was ten. I can outshoot Lark, and he is the best marksman in Tortuga.”

“I see,” Kane said. “Is this due to your magic?”

“
Oui
. I cannot turn my magic on and off. It runs through me.”

“Can you move objects with your mind?” Hannah asked.

“No, I need to cast spells, and I have to draw on my power. When I do tasks like shooting, I usually it do well.”

“Your brother had grand faith in you, lass,” Ronan said. He rubbed her arm, admiration or something else glinted in his eyes.

William hissed.

Mariah ignored him. She didn’t understand him. Why was he angry when someone believed in her ability?

“He dinna request your
Grand-mère
or
Grand-père
,” Ronan said. “Only you.” He dropped his arm and turned to Kane. “She speaks true, Capt’n, or Lark would not have spoken of her so highly.”

“You believed Lark?”

Ronan’s eyes darkened. “I trust Lark with my life.”

Kane grabbed the back of William’s neck and clasped his arm, in an older brother torment hold. “Your first task, Mariah,” Kane said. “Is to teach my stiff-necked brother how to control his animal.” He released William.

William mumbled something under his breath, but Mariah couldn’t hear him, and it was probably good. Because it was obviously another snub about her abilities, and she was tired of hearing them. 

Kane’s smile lessened, and his light tone turned serious. “Our lives depend on it. I can’t have him gobbling half my crew.”

“He will not.
Je vous le promets
,” Mariah said. “But he has to do exactly what I say.”

He nodded his head and pulled out his spyglass, staring out to sea. “William, you will follow her commands.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, William.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Aye, I am.”

Hannah smiled and squeezed Mariah’s arm. “I am going to thoroughly enjoy this.”

Tension built between Hannah and William. No doubt William wanted to throttle her, and Hannah tilted her chin, daring him to defy her. She was Kane’s woman, his love. And untouchable.

“You see, Mariah,” Hannah said. “When I came aboard this ship, William took it upon himself to be my personal jailer, threatening to lock me in the brig if I tried to fight with the crew.”

“I didn’t want you to be hurt,” he mumbled.

“He didn’t trust in my powers. Now ’tis your turn to learn to trust in your powers and convince others you have mastered it.” She peered up at William. “Kane is right. You must listen to her.” She put the back of her hand on her forehead and swayed.

“What’s wrong?” William asked.

“’Tis her power. It makes me light-headed.” Her voice faded.

“What?” All three men said at once.

Kane spun around and seized Hannah’s arm, flinging her behind him. He stuffed the spyglass into his belt and yanked out his pistol. William and Ronan closed ranks, blocking Hannah’s escape.

Mariah took a step back, her heart racing in her gullet. She wanted to run, but where would she go? This was Paris all over again. She was aboard a pirate ship. She gripped her pistol tight, knowing ’twas empty, but she would slam the butt of it into the temple of the first man who rushed her. 

“Kane, will you listen?” Hannah said. She pushed him and only moved him a little. “She didn’t hurt me. Her power’s not dangerous. No more than I am.”

William eyed Mariah suspiciously. She turned away to keep from screaming at him and watched Tortuga’s mountains disappear on the horizon. She wanted to jump ship and swim back to shore.

Kane scowled. “Why can you feel it and not I?”

Mariah swallowed and shrugged.
“Je ne sais pas.”

“Because a similar power resides in me,” Hannah said. “Kane, you better release me and stop acting like my father or I swear…”

“Hannah, I’m not a pasty codfish,” Kane growled.

“Don’t call him that.” She bristled. “He’s not the same man he was before. He’s—changed.”

Kane’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

“Then step aside,” she said. 

“Bloody hell,” he murmured and nodded. Male shoulders parted, allowing Hannah to squeeze through.

She marched over to Mariah and looped her arm through hers. “The interrogation’s over, gentlemen. She’s an excellent shot, and she proved it.” She pulled Mariah closer. “You look pale and tired. And I bet you would like a bath after your long trek down the mountain and then being challenged.”

“I was not challenging her,” William said. His stare held Mariah’s, not Hannah’s.

Mariah refused to argue with him and would not give into his intimidation.

“Aye, you were,” Hannah said. “Come on.” She patted Mariah’s arm. “Shall we get you that bath? The men will be busy sailing out to sea. Kane?”

“Aye,” Kane said. “I’ll see to it done.”

Hannah led her away from the bow. “Good. You need something to drink and a bit to eat before your bath.”

Mariah fought back tears.
Grand-mère
had been right about Hannah Knight. Hannah
was
Mariah’s ally, one who would defend her against angry pirates that had accepted her.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught William’s cold stare. She hung her head and sighed. For the first time,
Grand-mère
had been wrong about a vision. Despite his passionate kisses, William was not her protector. He was her accuser.  

Lark rested his head against the wall and curled his fists. His torn breeches hung low on his hips, and stringy hair hung in his eyes. The dim lantern cast a dull light on what had been his home for the past weeks, revealing the rack, a chair with thumb screws, and the whips and clubs hanging from the wall. It seemed like years since he drank too much, years since he was too slow to cast a spell against his kidnappers, years since he became Palmer’s slave. Gore and blood,
his
blood, stained the floor.  He clenched his toes on the damp floor and loathed the grime and dirt coating his bare feet.

He inhaled and coughed, gagging on his own stench. He licked his dry lips and wished for just a swallow of some cold water to coat his parched throat, not the foul bitter water Palmer forced him to drink. 

Footsteps thumped on the stairs, and a wave of cool air swirled in the brig. The lantern swayed and the flame flickered. Curvy shadows moved along the wall. An outline of a woman stood in the darkness. Red eyes filled with hate stared at him.

Natasa.

Enmity swirled in his gut. Ever since Palmer sailed to Zuto’s island and picked up the bitch, he’d detested her. Showing weakness was not an option. He forced his wobbly legs to stand and pressed his shoulders against the wall, ready to do battle.

When she stepped into the brig, the light brightened, and she strolled over. She wore a wicked smile and a tight red gown, her breasts threatening to spill out of the too low neckline. Did she not possess any decency? She drew her long red nails down his cheek, lightly scratching him.

He jerked his head aside.
“Ne me touchez pas!”

She patted his cheek. “You’re not in a position to tell me what to do, slave. I’ll touch as I wish.” 

Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Quinton Palmer burst into the hell hole with two of lackey’s trailing behind him. He had to duck in the dungeon or scrape his head on the filthy ceiling. His watery left eye leaked down onto his red beard, and Lark hid a smile. He’d been there when Ronan had gotten loose and stabbed Palmer.

“Damn you, Natasa,” Palmer said. “Why can’t you wait for me?”

“Because you’re a human. And slow. ’Tis why I’ve come on board this ship. You continue to disappointment me and Maketabori.”

Fear flashed in Palmer’s eyes, and he grumbled underneath his breath.

“I’m here to make sure the witch turns, and we locate and capture the dragon.” She focused on Lark. “Ready for your next lesson?”

The two lackeys smirked. 

“Burn in hell,” Lark snarled, knowing it was useless.

She squeezed his cheeks between her fingers, nails biting into his flesh. “Still defying me, handsome? If only you’d see it my way, I’d release you from your bonds.”

“Never,” Lark hissed. He gripped his manacles and kicked, only managing to move his foot a couple of inches. The chain links bit into his flesh.

She released him and laughed. “Soon, Lark, soon. I feel the darkness growing inside you. Your hate is growing stronger. Soon, you’ll give into it and become a warlock.”

Lark wanted to defy her, but his hate
was
growing, eating away at the goodness inside him. He wanted to hurt and maim, something
Grand-mère
had warned would lead to dark magic. 

Palmer folded his arms across his wide chest. “What do you want him to do now?”

“I want him to kill someone.”

Lark glared. He would kill someone. He would kill her.

“He does not have the ability to use his magic to kill,” Palmer said. “I’ve asked him to do it before. His powers are limited.”

Natasa smirked. “Fool. And you believed him?”

Palmer stormed over to Lark, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked. “Did you lie to me, boy?”

Lark ignored the smarting. “’Tis true. I do not have the power to kill. I only possess white magic,
oui
?”

“You’re a liar,” Natasa said.

Palmer slammed his fist into Lark’s jaw. Pain at the back of his skull blinded him. Lark spit blood onto the floor. “No, I am not.”

Palmer growled, “
Yari
—” 

“No, wait.” Natasa ran her hands over the rack. “What he needs is some persuasion.”

Lark bit back a retort. Defiance did not matter. They would either order the
yari
to choke him or torture him. Pain, always pain. 

Palmer nodded at Lark. “Strap him to the wheel.”

The lackeys unshackled Lark and dragged him to the rack. He struggled, but ’twas a jest; his limbs shook, his strength failed. Cold manacles latched onto his wrists and ankles. He closed his eyes, waiting for agony.

“Turn it,” Palmer ordered.

At a snort, Lark opened his eyes. The crank creaked, and with each turn, Lark’s arms stretched higher over his head while the manacles pulled on his legs. Muscles strained, bones cracked. The shackles bit into his wrists and ankles. He gulped down a scream.
Merde.
He prayed to lose unconsciousness.

“Stop,” Natasa ordered.

Larked panted against the agony, sweat dripping down his body.

“I’m so sorry to see you this way, Lark, but you leave me little choice.” She slid her fingers down his tightly drawn abdomen. “I’d much rather have you in my bed, pleasuring me.”

“I’d die first,” he gasped.

“You’ll regret saying that, wretch,” she warned.

She grabbed a chain that was draped around his wrist and yanked. His arm nearly popped out of his socket. Lark hissed, arching his back.

“Crank it again,” she said.

The crank scraped. Overstretched muscles twisted, and bones popped, joints pulled apart. Lark released a pitiful scream, betraying his facade against the torture.

Natasa smirked. “Have enough pain yet?”

“Pute,”
he spat, spittle running down his chin.